7 
T 


DAUGHTER  OF  THE  TENEMENTS 


LA    CORTESE. 
'Carrainella  came  dancing  on  the  stage." — Page  279. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF 

THE  TENEMENTS 


BY 


EDWARD    W.  TOWNSEND 

AUTHOR   OK 
1CHIMMIE  FADDEN,   MAJOR   MAX,   AND  OTHER  STORIES,"   ETC. 


NEW   YORK 

LOVELL,    CORYELL   &   COMPANY 
310-318  SIXTH  AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,  1895,  BY 
EDWARD   W.   TOWNSEND. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


3 

9 

f\ 


TO  MY  BEST  FRIEND  AND  MOST  HELPFUL  CRITIC,    MY 
WIFE,  THIS  BOOK  IS  LOVINGLY   DEDICATED. 

E.  W.  T. 
NEW  YORK,  Oct.,  1895. 


899716 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER                                                                                         PAGE 
I. — AN  AMBULANCE  AT  THE  ARCADY 9 

II. A  DANCER'S  MARIAGE  DE  CONVENANCE,          .        .    21 

III. _ AN  ARISTOCRAT  OF  MULBERRY  BEND,     ...    29 

IV. — A  NOTABLE  CONCESSION  TO  CUPID,          .        .        .36 

V.— A  DANCER'S  GIRL;  A  JANITOR'S  BOY,     .        .        .45 

VI.— ELEANOR'S  GLIMPSE  OF  TENEMENT  HADES,     .        .     56 

VII. — THE  CRIME  IN  THE  NIANTIC, 71 

VIII.— WAR,  ART,  AND  A  BREAKFAST,        ....     80 

IX.— BEFORE  AN  INSPECTOR  OF  POLICE,  ....     90 

X.— A  FALSE  START  AND  A  FAIR,          .        .        .        .103 

XI.— Miss  HELEN'S  ENCOUNTER  WITH  DOMINICO,    .         .114 

XII.— A  BOWERY  BALLET  DANCER'S  DEBUT,     .        .        .121 

XIII.— A  TODDY  AND  GLAD  TIDINGS 134 

XIV.— THE  EXODUS  FROM  MULBERRY  BEND,      .        .        .146 
XV.— A  TENDERLOIN  DISTRICT  Box  PARTY,    .        .        .153 

XVI.— A  BRIEF  VISIT  IN  UTOPIA, 160 

XVII.— IN  A  SIERRA  NEVADA  MINING  CAMP,       .        .        .170 

XVIII.— TOWARD  THE  UNSEALED  MOUNTAIN'S  HEART,         .  181 

XIX. — ETTORE  CESAROTTI'S  CONSCIENCE  FUND,          .        .  191 

XX.— MARK  WATERS  PLAYS  A  PART,        .        .        .        .198 

XXI. — A  NIGHT  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD,  ....  208 

XXII. — THE  SECRET  OF  AN  OPIUM  DEN 223 

XXIII. — NEARING  THE  RAPIDS  OF  LIFE,        ....  235 

XXIV.— OH,  WHAT  FOOLS  MEN  ARE!          .        .        .        .250 

XXV. — A  FLICKERING  LIGHT  GOES  OUT,    ....  262 

XXVI.— TOM'S  VINDICATION  AND  MOLLY'S  TRIBUTE,    .        .  268 

XXVII.— Two  TRIUMPHS  AT  THE  MAYFAIR,  .        .        .  273 

XXVIII.— "THE  HAND  OF  GOD  HAS  STRUCK!"       .         .        .283 

XXIX. — Two  WEDDINGS  AND  A  GARDEN,       ....  292 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


LA  CORTESE Frontispiece 

MAGGIE  LYON 14 

ETTORE  CESAROTTI 24 

THE  BLACKMAILERS, 26 

DAN  LYON, 3° 

BILL 32 

RlCCODONNA,         ..........       4° 

DOMINICO. 5° 

SWEATERS'  FREIGHT, 60 

THE  STRICKEN  SLAVE, 64 

MARK  WATERS,          .  72 

THE  PULLER-IN .        .     82 

A  VOTER, .92 

FATHER  AND  SON,      ......  •  100 

THE  YACHTSMAN, 104 

THE  FALSE  SPORTSMAN 112 

TERESA 116 

THE  BALLET-MASTER 126 

PATERNAL  PRIDE, 130 

BOWERY  ARTISTS 136 

MR.  FORDHAM,  ..........  142 

A  WAIF,  150 

THE  NEW  YORKER 154 

MR.  DEAN, 158 

UNCLE  BARNABY,  •  164 


8  List  of  Illustrations. 

PAGE 

THE  SHOT-GUN  MESSENGER, 172 

HECTOR 178 

GEORGE  PEYTON 188 

THE  FARO  DEALER, 194 

THE  MESSENGER 200 

ONE  OF  THE  TYPES, 212 

OUTCASTS, 220 

IN  THE  OPIUM  DEN, 226 

THE  INTERVIEW,        ....  ,  244 

MRS.  JACK  DARING, 256 

MOLLY 264 

CHUNG 270 

MAGGIE  LYON, .        .        .  276 

HELD, 288 

AT  MULBERRY  COURT, 300 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  TENEMENTS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

AN  AMBULANCE  AT  THE  ARCADY. 

IF  you  recall  the  long  and  popular  engagement  of  the 
Arcadian  Burlesque  Company  at  the  Arcady  Theatre 
(as  it  was  rechristened  on  the  one  hundredth  night  of 
the  company's  triumphant  appearance  there),  I  can 
identify  Teresa  Cesarotti  so  that  you  will  be  able  to 
recall  her,  too.  Her  name  means  nothing  to  you,  for 
the  sufficient  reason  that  it  was  never  printed  on  the  bills 
of  the  play,  or  anywhere  else,  because  Teresa  was  only 
one  of  the  ballet  girls.  A  hundred  of  them,  you  say? 
There  were  a  great  many,  but  yet  I  can  identify  her 
if  you  saw  the  company  more  than  once ;  and  if  you  are 
the  man  I  take  you  to  be,  you  did.  As  for  you,  madam, 
the  kind  of  burlesques  the  Arcadians  gave  was  not  as 
popular  with  women  theatre-goers  then  as  it  has  since 
become — for  my  part  I  deplore  the  change — but  even 
if  that  were  not  so,  you  were  too  young  then  to  go  to 
any  theatre,  for  the  Arcadians  date  back  fifteen  years, 
when  Union  Square  was  still  the  centre  of  theatricals, 
and  you  were  a  little  school-girl. 

Just  now  I  am  addressing  your  father  or  elder  brother, 
and  will  talk  to  you  about  occurrences  within  your 
recollection  as  soon  as  we  have  done  with  this  trouble- 

9 


:o  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

some  bnt  necessary  introduction  of  Teresa,  on  the  night 
she  met  with  that  accident  which  I  really  believe 
brought  about  this  history.  But  that  is  anticipating. 
You,  sir,  recall  that  at  the  end  of  each  act  of  the  Arca 
dians'  most  popular  burlesque  sixteen  of  the  ballet  girls 
separated  into  squads  of  four ;  each  four  in  turn  marched 
down  the  stage,  swung  to  the  right  or  left,  counter 
marched,  two  squads  combined,  and  came  down  by 
eights,  and  at  last  the  sixteen  swung  down  by  company 
front,  kicking  high  and  rhythmically,  commanded  by 
the  star  with  drawn  sword — the  scabbard  of  that  sword 
being  the  largest  piece  of  dress  or  ornament  about  her. 

The  men  about  town  had  those  four  squads  of  four 
named,  not  prettily:  the  "Shorts,"  "Longs,"  "Thins," 
and  "  Plumps. "  The  "  Longs"  came  down  the  stage  last, 
and,  when  they  started,  the  orchestra  leader  waved 
more  brass  into  the  music,  and  the  audience  cheered 
louder  than  ever;  for  the  four  strapping  big  girls 
marched  down  with  such  a  swing,  with  such  an  all- 
conquering  swagger,  that  it  was  delightfully  exciting. 

Well,  then,  Teresa  was  the  tallest  of  the  "Longs," 
the  one  on  the  right  of  the  line,  to  the  left  as  you 
looked.  She  was  also,  you  recollect,  now  that  I  have 
identified  her,  the  prettiest  in  the  company,  as  well  as 
the  most  graceful  dancer,  excepting  the  premiere. 

One  night  some  of  Teresa's  companions  in  the  ballet, 
and  some  of  the  habitues  in  the  audience,  noticed  that 
she  frequently  lost  the  dazzling  smile  which  properly 
belongs  to  an  Amazon  about  to  go  forth  to  battle  in  silk 
tights  and  kid  slippers.  When  a  glance  from  a  com 
panion  would  remind  Teresa  of  this,  the  smile  would 
be  re-affixed,  as  if  it  were  a  mask  that  had  fallen  and 
been  picked  up.  But  then  it  would  be  dropped  again. 
When  the  curtain  came  down  on  the  last  act,  and  ballet, 


An  Ambulance  at  the  Arcady.  n 

chorus,  and  principals  were  hurrying  to  their  dressing- 
rooms,  many  of  them  humming  the  air  of  the  last  song, 
dodging  stage  hands  with  whom  they  chaffed,  or  shout 
ing  reminders  of  engagements,  Teresa  waited  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs  leading  to  the  space  beneath  the  stage 
from  which  narrow  halls  led  to  their  dressing-rooms, 
until  all  her  companions  had  hurriedly  scattered.  A 
moment  after  the  orchestra  stopped  "  playing  the  audi 
ence  out,"  the  orchestra  leader  appeared  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  and  Teresa  started  down  to  meet  him. 

"Where  is  Hector?"  the  leader  asked,  as  they  met  in 
the  middle  of  the  staircase. 

"He  was  sick  to-day.  He  wanted  me  to  tell  you," 
Teresa  answered,  in  slow,  precise  English,  with  a  slight 
Italian  accent. 

The  leader  shrugged  his  shoulders: 

"  He  is  sick  too  much  since  you  got  your  salary  raised. 
He  did  not  send  a  substitute  and  we  were  a  second 
violin  short.  If  it  were  not  for  you  that  would  lose  him 
his  job,  and  it  will  anyway,  next  time.  You  can  tell 
him  so." 

The  stairs  where  they  were  standing,  once,  no  doubt, 
had  a  handrail  on  the  outside,  opposite  the  wall,  but  it 
had  been  knocked  off,  or  purposely  removed,  years  be 
fore,  because  it  interfered  with  the  carrying  up  and 
downstairs  of  bulky  stage  properties.  To-night,  a  stage 
hand,  carrying  an  unwiedly  throne  over  his  head,  started 
down  the  stairs  and,  seeing  Teresa  and  the  leader  stand 
ing  there,  shouted: 

"Lookout!" 

The  leader  ran  down  the  stairs,  but  Teresa,  as  she 
looked  up  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  lost  her  balance 
and  fell  over  the  unguarded  side  of  the  staircase. 

There  was  a  shriek,  a  moan,  "O  Santa  Maria!"  and 


12  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

silence.  They  rushed  to  her,  lifted  her,  and  carried 
her  fainting  to  her  dressing  room.  The  women  who 
dressed  with  her,  frightened  and  crying,  bathed  her 
face  when  she  was  laid  on  the  floor,  and  a  messenger 
was  sent  for  a  doctor.  One  was  found  near-by,  and 
when  he  came  Teresa  had  recovered  consciousness,  and 
moaned  piteously. 

"I  think  her  hip  is  fractured:  it  is  injured  badly, 
anyway.  You  had  better  send  for  an  ambulance,"  the 
doctor  said,  when  he  had  examined  her. 

The  group  of  half-dressed  men  and  women,  crowded 
into  the  little  room  and  about  the  door,  looked  sorrow 
fully  at  Teresa  as,  with  her  face  drawn  with  pain  and 
fright,  she  asked  one  of  the  women  what  the  doctor 
said. 

"  You  must  go  to  the  hospital,  dear,"  said  the  woman, 
who  was  called  Maggie. 

"But  Carminella!"  cried  Teresa  in  sudden  anguish. 
"  Who  will  take  care  of  Carminella?" 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"  Her  baby,  Carminella,"  answered  Maggie,  and  then 
bent  over  Teresa  and  said,  "We'll  let  Hector  know; 
he'll  look  after  the  baby." 

Teresa  only  moaned  and  shook  her  head.  Maggie 
understood.  The  doctor  may  have  guessed  a  little, 
for  he  said  kindly :  "  The  Society  will  look  after  the 
child." 

"No!  no!"  shrieked  Teresa,  and  many  of  the  other 
women  looked  nearly  as  frightened  as  she. 

Teresa  motioned  to  Maggie,  and  as  the  woman  bent 
over  her  again,  whispered :  "  Go  to  my  room  and  take 
Carminella  before  they  get  her.  Hide  her!  Come 
closer."  Maggie  put  her  ear  to  Teresa's  lips:  "My 
keys  are  in  my  satchel  there,  the  room  key  and  the 


An  Ambulance  at  the  Arcady.  13 

trunk  key.  There's  money  in  the  trunk.  Take  it  all. 
Pay  to  keep  Carminella  away  from  the  Society." 

Maggie,  a  handsome  Irish  girl,  one  of  the  four  who 
belonged  to  Teresa's  squad  in  the  burlesque,  had  the  wit 
to  take  the  keys  from  the  satchel  then  and  there,  and 
say, 

"  You  want  me  to  go  to  your  room,  dear,  and  get  the 
baby  and  the  money?"  Teresa  nodded,  "  Yes." 

"  And  it's  by  legal  right,  whatever  the  Society  or 
Hector  say?" 

Again  the  injured  woman  assented,  and  the  other 
girls  of  the  ballet  regarded  Maggie  with  admiring  ap 
proval  for  her  evidence  of  profound  learning  and 
knowledge  of  the  law. 

"She  said  'by  legal  right, '"  one  whispered.  "The 
Society  even  can't  touch  her  because  we're  witness  that 
Teresa  said  it  was  by  legal  right." 

"I  wonder  Maggie  wouldn't  hurry  though,"  another 
whispered.  *'  The  Society  might  get  there  first.  I've 
heard  they  have  spies  out." 

Teresa  caught  this  last  remark  and  apparently  for 
got  her  pain  in  the  overwhelming  terror  with  which 
she  begged  her  companion  to  hurry. 

Maggie  was  dressed  and  ready  to  go  just  as  the  am 
bulance  men  carried  Teresa  out  of  the  stage  entrance  on 
a  stretcher. 

"  I'll  come  to  the  hospital  and  let  you  know  when  I 
have  the  baby  safe,"  whispered  the  good-hearted  Irish 
girl  to  Teresa,  as  she  walked  by  the  side  of  the  stretcher 
to  the  ambulance. 

"To-night?"  asked  Teresa. 

"Sure,  to-night,  before  I  go  to  bed,"  answered  Mag 
gie,  and  Teresa  smiled. 

Maggie  went  to  Teresa's  room,  let  herself  in  and 


14  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

turned  up  a  dimly  burning  lamp.  She  started  and  half 
screamed,  for  the  first  thing  the  light  disclosed  was 
Teresa's  trunk,  open,  with  its  contents  scattered.  She 
turned  to  the  cradle  half  expecting  to  find  that  empty, 
but  little  Carminella  was  sleeping  there  peacefully.  A 
paper  pinned  to  the  blanket  covering  the  baby  caught 
her  attention.  It  was  not  enclosed  or  folded.  Maggie 
took  it  to  the  light.  She  could  make  out  only  the  ad 
dress,  "  Teresa,"  and  the  signature,  "  Ettore."  She  was 
frightened,  but  undecided  for  an  instant  only. 

"If  the  money  is  gone  it's  all  the  more  likely  the 
Society  will  be  after  the  child,"  she  thought. 

She  made  a  hasty  examination  of  the  tumbled  con 
tents  of  the  trunk  but  found  no  money.  From  a  bureau 
drawer  she  gathered  a  bundle  of  the  baby's  clothing,  and 
then,  quieting  herself,  woke  the  baby. 

"It's  Aunt  Maggie,"  she  said,  as  the  child  sat  up 
with  suddenly  wide-awake  eyes. 

"Aunt  Maggie,"  the  child  repeated,  laughing,  for 
she  knew  Maggie  and  liked  her. 

She  dressed  the  child  hurriedly,  telling  her  she  was 
going  to  take  her  on  a  visit,  and  she  would  not  see 
mamma  until  to-morrow. 

Carminella  was  fast  asleep  again  by  the  time  Maggie, 
with  the  baby  in  her  arms  and  a  bundle  by  her  side, 
was  riding  down  town  on  a  Bowery  car.  She  left  the 
car  at  Bayard  Street  and  walked  west,  passing  only  a 
few  persons,  and  none  of  them  paid  especial  attention 
to  her;  but  when  she  turned  into  Mulberry  Street  a 
policeman  on  the  corner,  glancing  sharply  at  her  anx 
ious  face  as  she  passed  under  the  light  of  a  gas  lamp, 
stepped  up  and  asked,  "  Where'd  you  get  that  bun 
dle?" 

"None  of  your  business,"  Maggie  answered,  trying 


MAGGIE     LYON. 
'None  of  your  business,'  Maggie  answered."— Page 


An  Ambulance  at  the  Arcady.  15 

to  be  bold  about  it,  but  her  voice  shook,  for  any  one  in 
authority  hinted,  in  her  mind,  at  the  Society. 

"Perhaps it  ain't,"  the  officer  said,  "and  perhaps  you 
won't  tell  where  you're  going  with  it." 

"  I'm  going  to  my  uncle's." 

"Most  everybody's 'uncle'  has  closed  shop  by  this 
time,"  said  the  officer,  with  a  little  laugh  at  his  joke. 

"I'm  going  to  my  uncle  Dan  Lyon,"  Maggie  said. 
"  Please  don't  stop  me!" 

"  Well,  there's  no  harm  in  Dan  Lyon,  sure,  nor  in 
you,  if  you  are  his  niece,"  said  the  officer.  "But  I 
think  I'll  just  see  you  there." 

He  let  her  pass  on,  but  followed.  Maggie  went  about 
a  third  of  the  way  down  the  block  on  the  right  hand 
side,  and  turned  into  a  dark  passage. 

"I'll  light  you  up  if  you  don't  know  the  way,"  the 
officer  said,  striking  a  match  on  the  wall. 

"I  know  the  way  well  enough,"  Maggie  responded. 

She  walked  through  the  passage-way,  across  a  brick 
paved  court,  and  into  an  open  entrance  of  the  rear  tene 
ment.  The  officer  then  took  the  bundle  from  her,  say 
ing  good-naturedly,  "You've  too  much  of  a  load  for 
three  flights.  Go  along,  I'm  coming." 

They  climbed  up  the  stairs  slowly,  and  on  the  third 
landing  Maggie  knocked  at  a  door. 

"Who's  that?"  asked  a  hearty  voice. 

"  It's  Maggie,  Uncle  Dan.     Let  me  in." 

In  a  minute  the  door  was  opened  by  a  man,  in  night 
gown  and  old-fashioned  nightcap,  holding  a  lamp.  He 
looked  aghast  at  the  woman,  the  child,  and  the  officer, 
and  exclaimed:  "Holy  Virgin!  what's  happened  you, 
Maggie  girl?" 

"It's  all  right,  Uncle  Dan,"  Maggie  answered,  half 
sobbing.  "  Tell  the  officer  it's  all  right." 


1 6  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

"Sure,  it's  all  right,  Cullen,"  Uncle  Dan  said,  back 
ing  away  to  let  Maggie  in. 

"  It's  all  right  if  you  say  so,  Dan.  Good-night,"  said 
the  officer,  turning  down  the  stairs  as  the  door  was 
closed. 

"The  officer'll  say  nothing,  Uncle  Dan?"  Maggie 
asked,  as  she  put  the  sleeping  child  on  the  man's  bed 
and  covered  her. 

"Sure  he'll  say  nothing,  'twas  me  put  him  on  the 
force,"  Dan  answered  proudly.  "But  tell  me,  Maggie 
girl:  what's  all  this?  You're  in  no  trouble?" 

Maggie,  seated  on  the  bed,  by  the  side  of  the  child, 
told  her  story,  to  which  Dan,  who  had  put  on  a  pair  of 
slippers,  and  an  overcoat  for  a  dressing-gown,  listened 
in  judicial  silence. 

"And  she's  as  good  a  girl  as  ever  lived,  Uncle  Dan," 
added  Maggie;  "she's  married  to  one  of  the  orchestra, 
a  man  they  call  Hector  Cesarotti,  who  has  no  good  in 
him  except  his  good  looks  and  fine  airs.  He  treated 
her  terrible.  Teresa  and  all  our  squad  got  a  raise  for 
the  hit  we  made  at  the  beginning  of  the  run  of  the 
piece  at  the  Arcady,  and  since  then  he's  done  nothing 
but  get  drunk  on  her  money.  She  was  dreadful  sav 
ing,  and  all  for  the  baby.  She's  crazy  over  the  kid, 
and  now  the  brute  has  taken  the  money  from  the  trunk, 
I'll  bet.  I  wonder  what  this  note  says.  I  know  it's 
from  him,  but  the  name  is 'Ettore. '  See."  She  gave 
Dan  the  paper  she  had  found.  He  took  it  to  the  lamp. 

"'Ettore',  why  that's  Italian  for  Hector,  I  know  that 
much.  Listen!  That's  Minico.  We'll  have  it  read." 

There  was  a  tramp  of  heavy  feet  coming  up  the 
stairs,  and  Dan  shouted:  "Minico!" 

The  door  opened,  and  a  ruddy,  unshaved,  smiling 
face  looked  in. 


An  Ambulance  at  the  Arcady.  17 

"Come  in,  Minico,"  said  Dan,  and  a  stalwart  figure 
followed  the  face  into  the  room.  "  This  is  me  niece, 
Maggie." 

The  Italian  pulled  his  soft  woollen  cap  off  his  curly 
black  hair,  nodded,  and  grinned. 

"  Here's  a  letter,  Minico,  we're  after  getting,  and 
can't  just  make  out  'cause  it's  in  your  way  of  writing." 

The  Italian  took  the  paper  and  studied  over  it. 
Reading  was  evidently  a  troublesome  task  to  him,  but 
after  a  long  silence  he  looked  up  at  Dan  in  a  puzzled 
way,  jerked  his  head  at  Maggie  and  asked:  "  Was  he 
her  man?" 

"No,  another  girl's.     What  is  it?"  Dan  replied. 

"  Well,"  Minico  continued,  as  if  relieved  at  the  infor 
mation,  "  He  gone  away ;  he  take-a  da  mon ;  he  no  come 
back.  He  say  she  get  along  better  widout  him." 

"That's  a  nice  story  for  me  to  be  telling  her  at  the 
hospital,"  cried  Maggie.  "  The^  villain!" 

Minico  did  not  understand  all  this,  and  with  a  friend 
ly  view  toward  getting  into  the  discussion  on  equal 
terms,  asked  Maggie  what  the  man's  whole  name  was. 

"  Ettore  Cesarotti!"  he  exclaimed,  when  she  in 
formed  him.  "  That  vara  big-a  name.  What  you 
calla  da  swell  name  in  da  old  country — in  Italy." 

"  Lots  of  good  the  name  will  do  her  when  he's  run 
off  with  the  money,"  snapped  Maggie.  "  I've  no  heart 
for  the  telling  of  it;  but  I  must  be  going,  Uncle  Dan, 
for  I  promised.  You'll  mind  the  kid  till  I'm  here 
early  in  the  morning?" 

"Sure,  Maggie  girl.  If  I  have  to  go  before  you 
come,  why,  there's  Tom  to  mind  the  little  one." 

"  Tom '11  mind  what?"  This  came  from  a  slim,  cotton- 
robed  figure  standing  in  the  doorway  leading  to  a  sec 
ond  room  ;  a  straight,  defiant  figure  of  a  boy,  who  looked 


i8  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

with  big-eyed  curiosity  at  the  group  whose  talk  had 
disturbed  his  sleep.  He  was  Dan's  son. 

"Come  here,  Tom,  till  I  show  you,"  Maggie  said, 
beckoning  to  him. 

Tom  tiptoed  over  to  the  sleeping  child,  and  when 
Maggie  showed  him  the  baby's  face,  his  lips  parted 
and  his  eyes  filled  with  wonder. 

"  I  never  seed  anything  so  pretty  in  me  life,"  he  said 
at  last,  slowly. 

"Tom '11  mind  it  well  enough,"  Maggie  said,  smiling 
at  her  uncle,  as  she  started  to  go. 

"  Sure,"  answered  Dan,  smiling  back,  "the  child  is 
safe  here;  it's  a  daughter  of  the  tenements  now." 

Maggie  was  not  at  all  surprised,  although  she  pre 
tended  to  be,  to  find  Officer  Cullen  standing  in  the 
court  just  outside  the  entrance  to  the  tenement. 

"I  was  thinking  you  might  not  find  your  way  out," 
he  said,  striking  a  match.  "  It's  easy  to  get  from  this 
into  another  court  and  be  lost  entirely.  Get  out  of  the 
way  there!" 

This  last  command  was  addressed  to  a  huddled  fig 
ure  asleep  on  the  court  pavement,  which  received  the 
j  kick  that  accompanied  the  admonition  with  an  affect 
edly  cheerful,  "All  right,  boss." 

"I  wouldn't  be  losing  my  way  in  the  day-time,  but 
I've  not  been  here  often  at  night,"  Maggie  said  ami 
cably,  for  she  did  not  object  to  the  guidance. 

"I've  to  go  to  the  hospital,"  she  added,  "so  I'll  take 
the  elevated  at  Canal  Street." 

"My  post  don't  run  that  far,"  said  the  officer,  "but 
I'll  pass  you  along." 

At  the  corner  he  signalled  with  his  club  and  another 
officer  came. 

"  Pass  her  along  to  Canal,"  Cullen  said  to  the  second 


An  Ambulance  at  the  Arcady.  19 

officer.     "Good-night,  Miss,  you're  thinking  no  harm 
for  me  stopping  you?" 

"Sure  not,  that's  your  business.     Good-night." 

From  post  to  post,  and  the  patrol  beats  are  short  in 
that  neighborhood,  Maggie  was  passed  to  her  station 
and  was  soon  at  the  hospital. 

"You  cannot  see  the  patient  at  this  time  of  night," 
said  the  hospital  doctor  to  whom  she  made  her  errand 
known,  when  she  had  at  last  been  admitted  to  his  office. 
"  But  if  you  are  a  friend  of  hers  named  Maggie,  and 
bring  any  news  of  a  person  named  Carminella,  I  will 
take  a  message,  if  it  is  favorable,  for  she  seems  to  be 
suffering  more  in  mind  about  that  than  in  body  from 
the  fracture." 

"A  person  named  Carminella,"  exclaimed  Maggie, 
"why  that  is  her " 

She  was  going  to  say  "  baby, "  but  caught  herself. 
Here  was  another  official  and  he  might  tell  the  Society. 

"  Tell  Teresa,"  she  went  on,"  that  Carminella  is  well 
and  safe  with  my  uncle."  She  did  not  add  anything 
about  Hector  or  the  letter.  "  That  will  come  soon 
enough,  poor  thing,"  she  thought. 

"  How  soon  will  she  be  able  to  work?"  she  asked  the 
doctor. 

"Work?"  he  echoed  in  surprise,  "  I  thought  she  was 
an  actress." 

Maggie  laughed.  "  Well,  we  call  it  work.  She 
dances.  How  soon  can  she  dance  again?" 

"That  can't  be  told  now,"  the  doctor  replied  cau 
tiously.  "  It's  a  rather  bad  fracture  of  the  hip.  Some 
times  injuries  of  the  kind  don't  leave  patients  with 
much  inclination  for  dancing.  We  can't  tell  yet.  She 
is  young  and  strong." 

Maggie  turned  away,  sorrowful  and  weary.     "  Tell 


2O  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

her  I'll  call  to-morrow,"  she  said,  and  as  the  dawn  was 
graying  the  sky  over  the  East  River,  she  went  to  her 
own  home  thinking  of  the  perfidy  of  Hector.  "  Ettore, 
indeed !  Much  good  that  name  will  do  her  when  her 
own  name  is  off  the  salary  roll." 

The  doctor  went  to  the  ward  where  Teresa  lay.  She 
was  waiting,  and  watching  for  him  with  eager  eyes. 
"Carminella?"  she  cried,  as  the  doctor  reached  her  bed. 

"She  is  well  and  safe  with  your  friend's  people,"  the 
doctor  said  kindly. 

"  Madonna  be  thanked !"  cried  the  woman,  and  covered 
her  face  and  wept  softly.  She  was  sleeping  when  he 
passed  through  the  ward  a  little  later.  "  That  news 
was  better  than  all  our  opiates,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  DANCER'S  MARIAGE  DE  CONVENANCE. 

THREE  years  before,  Teresa  had  attracted  the  attention 
of  Ettore  Cesarotti,  who  played  in  the  orchestra  at  the 
theatre  where  the  Italian  girl  first  appeared  after  she 
came  to  New  York  with  a  resplendent  but  promptly 
bankrupted  company.  Many  others  were  attracted  by 
the  young  ballet  girl's  beauty  and  grace,  but  the  lan 
guage  of  most  of  them  was  foreign  to  her,  and  those 
she  could  understand  talked  love,  but  not  marriage. 
All  except  Ettore  of  the  men  she  met  of  her  own  race 
were  also  of  her  own  class,  but  these  she  would  not  en 
courage,  for  she  was  not  without  appreciation  of  her 
beauty;  and  the  sordid  surroundings  of  her  youth,  and 
a  nature  strangely  lacking  in  impulsiveness  for  one 
of  her  nationality,  held  fast  in  her  a  hope  that  that 
beauty  might  be  the  means  of  her  social  and  material 
advancement.  It  is  true  that  this  unusual  ambition 
puzzled  her  companions  and  baffled  others  who  sought 
her  companionship.  Ettore  was  much  above  her  so 
cially,  that  was  manifest;  that  he  was  equally  above 
his  own  apparent  rank  she  thought  she  divined,  but  did 
not  disclose  this  guess  to  him.  He  thought  he  saw  in 
her  the  embryo  of  a  great  dancer  who  would  earn  fame 
for  herself  and  money  for  him ;  and  it  was  partly  this 
belief,  and  partly  that  he  was  really  moved  by  her  great 
beauty  and  could  not  win  her  without  the  ring,  that 
prompted  his  proposal  of  marriage,  which  she  accepted. 

21 


22  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

They  did  not  know  much  of  each  other.  She  thought 
him  handsome;  he  could  teach  her  English,  which  she 
must  know  in  order  to  advance  in  her  adopted  country. 
Extraordinary  reasons,  my  dear  madam,  I  know,  for  a 
girl  marrying,  but  consider  that  she  was  a  child  of 
chorus  people,  and  commend  her  that  she  insisted  upon 
the  ring.  Such  vulgarians  sometimes  do  marry  for 
mere  material  considerations,  than  which  I  know  of 
nothing  appealing  more  strongly  for  the  elevation  of 
all  classes  up  to  the  social  standards  of  our  very  high 
est  circles. 

Ettore  was  not  wholly  a  bad  bargain  at  first.  He 
paid  for  dancing  lessons  by  Professor  Polli,  who  had 
fitted  many  specialty  dancers  to  earn  sums  which  daz 
zled  Teresa  to  hear  about;  and  he  encouraged  her,  did 
Professor  Polli.  He  worked  hard  to  develop  her  in 
some  specialty,  and  all  the  time  there  was  a  general 
improvement  which  advanced  her  from  the  rear  to 
near  the  front  ranks  of  the  ballet  in  the  companies  she 
appeared  with. 

Ettore  kept  at  work,  and  took  Teresa  from  the  dingy 
single  room  she  had  lived  in,  to  a  better  room  in  a  bet 
ter  neighborhood,  near  the  theatre,  and  Teresa  felt  that 
she  had  done  well  in  marrying. 

Then  Carminella  came,  and  with  the  baby  Teresa's 
first  love  was  born.  From  the  beginning  it  was  the 
object  of  her  single,  passionate,  almost  awful  devotion. 
Ettore  was  kind  at  first;  divided  his  wages  with  Teresa, 
took  notice  of  the  baby  sometimes,  and  aided  Teresa  in 
her  eager  study  of  English.  Teresa  slaved  for  the  baby 
and  slaved  to  improve  herself,  but  she  felt  that  she  was 
not  advancing  much,  and  would  have  given  up  the  un 
wonted  task  of  school-books  if  it  had  not  been  for  Car 
minella. 


A  Dancer's  Manage  de  Convenance.  23 

"  I  must  know  so  that  Carminella  will  know.  She 
must  learn  to  read  printing  so  that  she  can  study  parts 
and  not  always  be  in  the  ballet.  Who  is  to  teach  her  if 
I  do  not?"  and  this  beautiful  twenty-year-old  mother 
drudged  on  with  her  school-books,  with  sewing  for  the 
baby,  with  the  work  of  her  room,  until  her  bones  ached 
and  her  head  swam,  but  that  was  nothing;  it  was  all 
for  Carminella,  and  she  wished  she  could  do  more. 

But  when  the  baby  was  a  year  old  Ettore  began  to 
grumble  at  Teresa  for  being  unprofitable. 

Had  he  no  use  for  his  money  but  to  keep  her  in  idle 
luxury  ?  The  manager  of  the  Arcadians  had  asked 
when  she  was  to  return  to  work.  There'  was  a  new 
production  into  which  she  could  go  and  earn  ten  dollars 
a  week.  Hundreds  of  women  were  begging  for  such 
places  at  five  dollars  a  week.  Was  Teresa  a  star  that 
managers  must  come  to  her  and  beg? 

Thus  Ettore  scolded,  but  Teresa  would  not  go  back 
to  the  theatre  yet,  she  said.  Who  was  to  care  for 
Carminella  during  the  long  rehearsals  and  perform 
ances? 

Then  Ettore  adopted  another  plan :  he  cut  down  Te 
resa's  allowances,  and  finally  gave  her  nothing.  The 
baby  needed  clothes  and  she  wanted  good  food  to  keep 
strong  for  the  baby.  Yes,  she  would  work. 

At  first  Teresa  took  the  baby  with  her  to  the  theatre, 
and  put  it  in  a  basket  in  the  dressing-room,  but  the 
other  women  who  dressed  with  Teresa  made  such  a  fuss 
over  it,  cried  and  laughed  over  it,  and  hugged  and 
kissed  it  so  much  that  Carminella  could  not  sleep. 
The  baby  took  cold  once  going  home  after  a  perform 
ance,  and  nearly  died,  and  Teresa  almost  went  in 
sane  ;  so  after  that  it  was  left  at  home,  where  a  woman 
in  the  house  agreed  for  fifty  cents  a  week  to  look  into 


24  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

her  room  and  see  that  the  baby  was  all  right  while 
Teresa  was  absent. 

Then  came  the  big  hit  of  the  squad  in  which  Teresa 
danced,  and  the  successful  strike  of  those  knowing  four 
which  resulted  in  compelling  the  anguished  manager 
to  increase  their  salaries  until  they  were  paid  twenty 
dollars  a  week.  Soon  after  that  Ettore  began  neglect 
ing  his  work,  and  sending  a  substitute  to  play  second 
violin  while  he  played  dominoes  and  drank  in  the  cafe 
of  the  Hotel  Garibaldi,  spending  Teresa's  salary. 

They  quarrelled  about  this,  Teresa  and  Ettore,  and 
fought,  sometimes,  when  Teresa  would  not  tell  him 
what  she  did  with  a  part  of  her  salary — which  she  was 
hiding  in  her  trunk  for  Carminella. 

They  had  quarrelled,  and  he  had  struck  her  because 
she  would  not  give  him  money,  on  the  evening  she  fell 
from  the  stairs  under  the  Arcady  stage.  Teresa  had 
gone  to  the  theatre  and  Ettore  had  pretended  to  go  to 
the  cafe.  He  had,  in  fact,  returned  to  the  room  as 
soon  as  she  was  gone,  rifled  her  trunk,  found  nearly 
$100,  and  written  this  note  which  Maggie  took  from 
Carminella's  blanket: 

TERESA  :— I  have  taken  the  money  which  you  have  so  wickedly 
concealed  from  me.  I  shall  not  return,  ever;  and  that  you  will 
bless  me  for,  because,  selfish  one,  you  will  be  happier  without 
your  ETTORE. 

It  was  many  long  weeks  before  Teresa  saw  that  note. 
Her  injury  proved  serious,  and  there  had  to  be  an  oper 
ation  which  made  it  impossible  for  her  ever  to  dance 
again,  but  that  she  did  not  know  either — that  she  could 
not  dance  again,  that  she  would  always  walk  with  a 
slight  limp.  It  was  years  before  she  realized  that,  so 
long  did  she  hope.  At  first  Maggie  would  not  tell  her 
of  the  note,  but  Teresa  must  have  suspected  something, 


ETTORE     CESAROTTI. 
While  he  played  dominoes  and  drank. "—Page  24. 


A  Dancer's  Manage  de  Convenance.  25 

for  she  never  inquired  about  Ettore.  It  was  Carmi- 
nella  always,  and  about  the  baby  Maggie  had  always 
good  news. 

"Sure,  dear,  the  little  one  has  three  slaves:  Uncle 
Dan,  Cousin  Tom,  ten  years  old,  and  an  Italian  who 
lives  on  the  floor  with  them,  Dominico  Cortese,  that 
Uncle  Dan  calls  'Minico. '  Uncle  Dan  keeps  Tom  out 
of  school  j-ust  to  mind  the  baby,  and  it's  no  task  for 
Tom,  for  he  is  fonder  of  Carminella  than  of  himself, 
and  he  never  lets  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in  the  tene 
ment  touch  her  except  Minico,  who  is  much  better  than 
the  rest.  Indeed,"  explained  Maggie,  glad  of  an  excuse 
to  boast  a  little  about  Uncle  Dan,  "  Carminella  is  living 
with  aristocrats,  even  if  she  is  in  Mulberry  Bend." 

Maggie  once  proposed  to  bring  the  baby  to  the  hos 
pital,  but,  although  the  mother's  heart  choked  her  at 
the  thought,  she  said  "No."  The  Society  might  have 
heard  that  she  was  in  the  hospital  and  that  the  baby 
had  no  kin  to  look  after  it,  and  might  capture  it  if  it 
were  taken  so  far  away  from  its  friends. 

It  may  be  incumbent  on  me  to  explain  a  little  this 
foolish  fear  of  Teresa's  about  "the  Society,"  as  that 
Society  is  called  which  takes  the  children  of  the  poor, 
when  the  poor  cannot  help  themselves.  I  explain  only 
because  it  is  proper  that  my  readers  should  have  the 
same  sensible  ideas  about  this  matter  that  all  other 
highly  respectable  and  intelligent  persons  have.  Of 
course,  if  charitable  people  will  give  up  their  valuable 
time  to  having  laws  passed  giving  them  extraordinary 
and  arbitrary  powers  over  the  children  of  the  poor,  all 
reasonable  persons  are  justified  in  supposing  that  the 
poor  appreciate  the  noble  and  self-sacrificing  motive 
which  prompts  such  efforts.  Being  poor,  they  can  have 
no  such  natural  love  for  their  offspring  as  would 
3 


26  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

prompt  resentment  against  any  interference  by  the  So 
ciety  in  their  relations  with  their  children.  That,  I 
say,  is  what  one  would  reasonably  and  properly  suppose. 
But  the  poor  are  unreasonable  and  not  infrequently 
improper,  so  the  rule  does  not  work.  They  are  some 
times  so  sinfully  unreasonable  as  to  love  their  children, 
or  at  least  affect  to,  as  much  as  if  they  were  creatures 
of  refinement  and  education,  and  had  power  enough  to 
take  other  people's  children  away  from  them. 

It  is  really  humiliating  to  know  the  ingratitude  of  the 
poor  in  this  regard.  Why,  I  recall,  for  instance,  the 
case  of  that  Polish  woman  who  was  arrested  because  she 
could  not  make  enough  money  in  her  little  tobacco 
shop  to  pay  the  blackmailing  demands  of  two  police 
officers  (she  thought  they  were  collectors  of  legal  taxes), 
and  when  she  was  sent  to  jail  to  teach  her  to  work 
harder,  "the  Society"  took  her  children,  and  very 
properly.  But  when  she  came  from  jail  and  found 
there  was  no  law  by  which  she  could  get  her  children 
away  from  the  Society,  that  unreasonable  woman  went 
insane.  The  doctors  said  she  went  insane  from  grief, 
but  I  have  my  own  opinion,  and  that  is  that  she  went 
insane  through  native,  inborn,  crass  unreasonableness. 
You  see,  those  stories  become  known,  and  foolish  and 
ignorant  people  like  Teresa  hear  them,  and  are  thus 
possessed  by  a  wicked  prejudice  against  the  Society. 
Besides,  Teresa  knew  of  a  woman  of  her  profession 
who,  ignorant  of  the  law,  allowed  her  fourteen-year  old 
daughter  to  dance  on  the  stage — she  had  danced  at 
home,  and  in  the  tenement  courts,  and  on  the  streets 
for  years — and  the  Society  got  that  girl,  took  her  where 
the  wicked  mother  could  not  see  her,  and  the  wicked 
mother  (in  wicked  rage,  no  doubt,  but  Teresa  believed 
it  was  in  grief),  killed  herself.  I  have  made  this  little 


THE     BLACKMAILERS. 
"  Sha  thought  they  were  collectors  of  legal  taxes."1 — Page  26. 


A  Dancer's  Mariage  de  Convenance.  27 

explanation  because  I  should  feel  that  I  had  been  un 
just  to  Teresa  if  I  had  not  explained  that  she  had  some 
reasons,  false  and  foolish  reasons,  to  be  sure,  but  she 
believed  them  good,  for  her  terror  of  that  most  kind, 
considerate,  and  at  all  times  reasonable  institution,  "  the 
Society." 

When  the  day  came  that  Teresa  was  to  be  discharged 
from  the  hospital  "cured,"  Maggie  was  there  to  go  with 
her  to  Dan's  rooms,  for  Teresa's  room  had  been  given 
up  and  her  few  belongings  had  been  moved  into  a  room 
on  the  floor  with  Dan,  where  she  could  live  the  little 
time  it  would  take  her  hip  to  become  strong  and  supple 
again,  Maggie  said. 

Teresa  made  no  objection  to  this.  She  had  some 
pride,  much  more  than  most  people  in  her  station,  and 
she  had  thought  of  this  in  the  last  days  in  the  hospital. 
She  knew  that  Dan  had  paid  a  month's  rent  for  the 
room,  and  she  thought  that  he,  too,  must  be  bitter  poor 
to  live  in  Mulberry  Bend.  But  her  pride  had  to  give 
way.  In  all  the  city  there  was  not  man  or  woman  be 
holden  to  her  by  tie  of  deed  or  blood  she  could  call 
upon  for  help,  for  car-fare  to  her  baby's  side! 

There  were  benevolent  societies,  to  be  sure,  she  had 
heard  of  them,  and  knew  of  girls  who  had  been  helped 
by  them,  but  was  there  one  to  offer  her  shelter  with  her 
baby?  She  knew  of  none,  and  if  she  inquired  there 
was  danger  that  the  Society,  the  dreaded  one,  would 
find  out  Carminella.  Maggie  had  shown  her,  she  had 
to  at  last,  the  letter  from  Ettore.  Teresa  read  it, 
sobbed,  cursed,  and  prayed  a  little,  and  then  said  she 
would  become  Dan's  debtor,  and  repay  him  when  she 
went  back  to  work,  and  that  would  surely  be  soon. 

It  was  a  bright  morning  when  they  reached  the  Bend, 
and  Teresa  smiled  with  delight  at  the  familiar  sights 


28  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

• 

and  sounds.  She  had  never  been  there  before,  but  she 
knew  streets  in  her  native  city  so  like  this  it  seemed  as 
if  she  were  at  home  again.  The  market  stalls  and 
stands  and  wagons  were  loaded  with  just  the  same 
heaps  of  brilliantly  colored  wares;  the  women  bartering- 
and  laughing  were  dressed  the  same;  the  men,  hawk 
ing  their  fruit,  vegetables,  and  fish,  spoke  the  language 
she  knew,  and  turned  and  smiled  as  she  recognized  their 
cries  as  something  familiar;  there  was  the  same  amaz 
ing  number  of  children — none  so  beautiful  as  Carmi- 
nella — and  the  bright  sun  shone  on  the  same  frank  con 
fusion  of  all-prevailing  dirt. 

When  they  reached  the  court  Maggie  called  on  Te 
resa  to  look  up,  and  at  an  open  window  she  saw  a  fair- 
haired  youngster,  laughing  roguishly,  holding  in  his 
arms  the  dark  and  beautiful  Carminella. 


CHAPTER    III. 

AN  ARISTOCRAT  OF  MULBERRY  BEND. 

DAN  LYON  was  an  aristocrat  of  the  Bend.  A  true  ar 
istocrat:  he  knew  and  valued  his  position,  but  never 
made  it  objectionably  prominent  before  his  inferiors. 
There  were  various  things  which  aided  in  establishing 
this  aristocracy,  and,  as  is  sometimes  the  case  with 
other  aristocrats  in  other  stations  in  life,  he  was  proud 
est  of  the  one  thing  which  in  the  estimation  of  his 
neighbors  seemed  more  a  matter  of  curiosity  than  pride : 
he  was  a  native-born  American.  There  were  records  to 
prove  this,  and  Dan  had  them  to  show  if  the  matter  was 
ever  questioned.  A  few  months  after  the  arrival  of  his 
father  and  mother  from  Ireland  on  a  packet-ship,  Dan 
was  born,  not  far  from  Hanover  Square,  and  now,  fifty 
years  afterward,  he  was  employed  as  janitor  of  the 
Niantic  Building  on  Exchange  Place,  not  many  blocks 
from  where  he  was  born. 

This,  I  say,  was  to  his  neighbors  more  a  matter  of 
curiosity  than  pride.  That  one  should  have  been  born 
in  the  country  and  have  had  fifty  years  to  work  out  of 
the  tenements,  was  curious  enough,  but  not  unparal 
leled;  that  he  could  leave  the  district,  that  is,  was  in 
worldly  circumstances  to  do  so,  and  did  not,  was  pass 
ing  strange,  and  suggests  the  real  reason  the  Bend  took 
much  pride  in  Dan:  he  did  not  labor,  as  labor  is  known 
there,  for  his  daily  bread  ;  and  that  established  his  aris 
tocracy.  Had  not  Dominico  Cortese  visited  Dan  in  the 

29 


^o  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

Niantic  Building  on  matters  relating  to  their  common 
interest,  and  reported  to  all  who  would  listen  that  Dan 
actually  had  an  office  with  the  name,  "Janitor,"  painted 
on  the  door!  and  men  and  women  under  his  com 
mand,  who  did  the  actual  labor  required  about  the  build 
ing  to  keep  it  in  order  and  repair,  to  keep  it  clean, 
warm  in  winter,  cool  in  summer,  free  from  beggars 
and  pedlers,  and  make  it  all  that  a  dignified  and  quiet 
old  office  building  should  be? 

So  Dominico  reported,  and  so  it  became  known,  that 
Dan  did  no  manual  labor,  yet  was  paid  wages  beyond 
the  dreams  of  avarice;  and  that  was  what,  in  his  neigh 
bors'  estimation,  made  him  an  aristocrat;  not  the  mere 
accident  of  birth  on  which  he  prided  himself  so. 

There  was  much  discussion  in  the  Bend,  especially 
in  the  tenement  in  which  Dan  lived,  and  the  tenement 
front  and  back  of  it,  and  on  each  side  of  it,  as  to  what 
wages  Dan  really  was  paid.  The  guesses  varied  wildly, 
running  from  forty  to  seventy-five  dollars  a  month,  but 
Dan  never  enlightened  the  curious.  It  was  more  than 
enough,  over  and  over  again,  to  pay  what  it  cost  him 
to  live,  and  Tom,  too,  his  ten-year-old  son;  and  that 
of  course  gave  wondrous  incentive  to  the  flights  of  im 
agination  regarding  the  subject.  He  had  money  in  the 
bank,  that  was  guessed  by  all,  and  known  positively  to 
more  than  a  score  of  his  neighbors,  whose  banker  he 
was,  Dominico  Cortese  among  the  number. 

It  seems  almost  unfair  not  to  let  Dan  abide  with  you 
in  the  more  or  less  romantic  vagueness  in  which  he  was 
viewed  by  his  neighbors,  rather  than  tell  the  prosaic 
and  practical  reason  why  he  remained  in  the  Bend. 
When,  something  over  twenty  years  before  we  first  knew 
him,  Dan  had  married  and  gone  to  live  in  Mulberry 
Bend,  he  was  employed  as  a  laborer  in  the  Niantic 


DAN     LYON. 
"A  true  aristocrat:  he  knew  and  valued  his  position." — Page 


An  Aristocrat  of  Mulberry  Bend.  31 

Building  on  Exchange  Place,  which  is  between  Broad 
and  William  Streets,  as  you  may  know. 

It  was  some  time  before  his  only  son  Tom  was  born 
that  he  became  janitor,  and  which  of  the  two,  his  place 
or  his  son,  he  was  proudest  of,  Mrs.  Dan  said  she  never 
could  tell.  Nearly  ten  years  before  we  first  met  him, 
when  Tom  was  a  baby,  Mrs.  Dan  died,  and  it  was  about 
that  time  many  of  his  neighbors,  Irish  and  Irish  Amer 
icans,  moved  away  from  the  neighborhood  up  to  the 
Fortieth  Streets  on  the  west  side.  Dan  would  have 
gone  too,  but  he  was  a  follower,  politically,  of  Charles 
Dean,  and  thereby  earned  some  addition  to  his  income. 
Dan  was  something  more  than  a  conservative  in  all 
matters  relating  to  finances.  He  had  been  brought  up 
from  a  boy  in  an  atmosphere  of  financial  and  commer 
cial  conservatism.  In  the  Niantic  Building  there  were 
no  tenants  who  speculated,  who  promoted,  who  adopted 
new  methods  for  old;  who  even  so  much  as  advanced  a 
junior  to  be  a  senior  clerk,  until  after  much  serious  con 
sideration  of  the  matter  in  all  its  possible  bearings.  So 
when  Dan  considered  the  question  of  moving  up-town 
to  the  west  side,  he  asked  himself  what  would  be  his 
chances  of  becoming  a  lieutenant  there  of  a  political 
leader  on  whose  staff  he  would  fare  as  well  as  he  did 
under  Mr.  Dean.  The  latter  really  settled  the  matter 
by  suggesting  to  Dan  that  he  could  extend  his  useful 
ness,  in  spite  of  the  exodus  of  the  Irish,  by  helping  to 
look  out  for  the  Italian  vote,  a  new  and  important  com 
modity  coming  rapidly  into  the  market.  So  Dan  and 
Tom  and  a  foster-son  of  Dan's,  William,  ten  years 
Tom's  senior,  remained  in  the  Bend,  and  there  Dan 
established  relations  of  such  a  friendly  and  trusting 
character  with  the  Italians  that  he  was  able  to  be  of 
much  service  to  Mr.  Dean  in  a  manner  that  gentle- 


32  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

man  never  failed  to  recognize.  Dan  hired  the  daughter 
of  an  Italian  tenant  to  "  mind"  motherless  baby  Tom  dur 
ing  working  hours  until  Tom  was  four  years  old,  at 
which  age  he  went  to  a  mission  school,  and  began  at 
that  same  discreet  age  to  otherwise  "  mind"  himself ; 
,  early  displaying  a  strength  and  independence  of  char 
acter  which  in  later  years  made  him — well,  at  any  rate, 
it  made  him  our  hero. 

Dan's  foster-son  Bill  was  not,  as  some  of  the  neigh 
bors  thought,  a  son  of  his  wife,  but  of  her  first  husband 
by  another  wife.  Dan  had  tried  to  do  well  by  Bill,  al 
though  he  knew  that  the  boy's  father  had  been  addicted 
to  the  habit  of  beating  the  late  Mrs.  Lyon ;  but  the  boy 
broke  away  from  the  restraint  of  both  school  and  home 
at  an  early  age,  and  passed  youthful  years  of  joyous,  if 
sometimes  rough,  and  always  checkered,  independence, 
in  City  Hall  Square  and  on  Newspaper  Row. 

When  Carminella  was  taken  to  Dan's  room  Bill  was 
twenty  years  old.  His  bed  was  always  made  up  and 
waiting  for  him  in  the  room  where  Tom's  cot  was,  but 
he  seldom  occupied  it.  That  was  Dan's  cross.  When 
Bill  worked  it  was  as  a  barkeeper  in  a  Bowery  saloon, 
and  he  objected,  he  said,  to  living  in  the  Bend.  If  his 
foster-father  thought  it  good  enough  for  himself  and 
Tom,  to  live  in  the  poorest  tenement  district  in  the 
city,  that  was  Dan's  affair.  It  was  not  good  enough  for 
a  barkeeper  and  a  gentleman,  and  he  was  ashamed  for 
Dan  that  he  thought  it  befitted  him.  That  was  the  way 
Bill  talked  when  he  had  employment;  but  when  he  had 
none  he  came  home,  delighting  Dan's  heart,  and  bor 
rowed  money  and  permitted  Dan  to  show  him  off  to  the 
neighbors,  for  he  was  a  handsome  fellow,  looking  five 
years  older  than  he  was,  and  had  the  manners  of  a  gen 
tleman,  all  agreed;  as,  indeed,  one  should  who  earned 


BILL. 
"  And  had  the  manners  of  a  gentleman." — Page  32. 


An  Aristocrat  of  Mulberry  Bend.  33 

a  living  by  means  only  a  little  removed  from  elegant 
leisure,  for  so  the  occupation  of  attending  the  bar  in  a 
glittering  drinking-palace  was  regarded  by  the  ped- 
lers,  rag-pickers,  street-sweepers,  and  even  the  fruit 
and  fish  vendors  who  belonged  to  Dominico's  class. 

Dan  hired  and  furnished  three  rooms  in  his  tenement, 
and  that  also  not  only  elevated  him  in  the  estimation  of 
his  neighbors,  who  were  often  compelled  to  consider  one 
room  for  four  persons  sufficient  living  accommodation, 
but  it  added  to  the  air  of  mystery  which  surrounded 
him.  A  sleeping-room  for  the  boys,  a  sitting-room  in 
which  was  Dan's  bed,  and  a  third  room  for  kitchen  and 
dining-room,  each  with  whole  and  sound  furniture, 
seemed  to  Dan's  fellow-tenants  evidence  of  wealth  and 
luxurious  taste.  Dominico,  who  had  a  single  room  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  hall  on  the  same  floor,  was 
Dan's  chief  lieutenant  in  his  political  affairs. 

Dan  picked  out  Dominico  as  an  aid  at  first  because 
he  could  speak  English,  and  found  that  he  had  made  a 
wise  selection  on  other  grounds,  for  Dominico  was  a 
good-natured  young  fellow  and  popular  with  his  coun 
trymen.  He  was  educated,  too,  for  he  could  not  only 
read  and  write  Italian  after  a  cumbersome  fashion,  but 
could  read  English  print,  and  was  making  some  pro 
gress  in  writing  English,  under  Tom's  instructions. 
It  did  not  seem  that  such  higher  education  could  benefit 
a  man  who  peddled  fruit  from  a  cart  he  pushed  about 
the  streets,  but  Dominico  found  that  it  did.  He  could 
make  quicker  and  better  trades  with  the  fruit  commis 
sion  merchants,  down  Washington  Market  way,  and 
this  induced  other  and  less  educated  pedlers  to  pay 
him  a  small  commission  to  do  their  buying,  and  as 
Dominico  was  as  saving  as  any  of  his  class,  it  came 
about  that  he  had  the  necessary  capital  for  a  bold  and 


34  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

magnificent  business  venture  which  Dan  suggested  to 
him  only  a  year  before  Teresa  met  with  the  accident  at 
the  Arcady  Theatre. 

Charles  Dean,  Dan's  political  chieftain  and  patron, 
was  the  owner  of  the  Tivoli  Theatre  in  the  Bowery.  If 
you  have  ever  been  there,  you  know  that  to  the  right 
of  the  main  entrance  is  a  recess  made  by  the  closing  of 
another  entrance  which  formerly  led  to  Mr.  Dean's  pri 
vate  office,  and  on  the  left  a  corresponding  entrance 
which  leads  to  the  saloon  over  which  is  Mr.  Dean's 
name.  The  street  entrance  to  the  office  had  been  closed 
because  people  so  often  mistook  it  for  the  entrance  to 
the  theatre,  and  men  who  called  on  Mr.  Dean  generally 
had  important  and  confidential  business  which  should 
not  be  interrupted ;  so  a  less  conspicuous  entrance  was 
made  from  the  lobby  of  the  theatre.  This  left  a  recess, 
a  waste  space,  twelve  feet  wide,  and  about  half  as  deep, 
opening  on  the  sidewalk,  which  Dan's  practical  eye  ob 
served  just  at  a  time  when  he  was  casting  about  in  his 
mind  for  some  manner  of  compensating  Dominico  for 
his  valuable  assistance  in  training  the  Italian  hand  in 
the  way  it  should  vote. 

He  spoke  to  Mr.  Dean,  the  source  of  all  power  and 
benefits,  and  that  night  waited  for  Dominico,  eager  to 
tell  him  that  if  he  had  the  enterprise  for  the  scheme 
(Dari  was  his  banker  and  knew  he  had  the  capital),  he 
could  at  once  become  a  merchant ;  could  leave  his  life 
of  peddling,  and  go  into  business  at  a  permanent  fruit- 
stand  in  front  of  the  Tivoli.  Dominico  could  not  com 
prehend  it  all  at  once.  He  walked  up  the  Bowery  with 
Dan  and  they  measured  off  the  space,  took  note  of  all 
the  surroundings,  observed  that  the  light  in  front  of 
the  theatre  would  save  the  expense  of  specially  lighting 
the  stand,  and  Dominico  remarked  with  excitement  the 


An  Aristocrat  of  Mulberry  Bend.  35 

number  of  people  who  went  into  the  theatre  carrying 
bags  of  fruit  and  nuts.  They  called  on  Mr.  Dean, 
whom  Dominicohad  never  seen,  and  the  Italian  blushed 
and  stammered  with  pride  and  delight  when  the  great 
man  shook  hands  with  him  and  said,  in  a  perfectly 
friendly  manner:  "Dan  tells  me,  Minico,  you've  quite 
an  idea  of  doing  politics.  You'll  lose  nothing  by  it 
while  you  stick  to  me;  no  one  ever  did." 

Dominico  was  so  overcome  by  the  great  man's  con 
descension  that  he  forgot  for  some  time  to  wonder  why 
Mr.  Dean  had  not  worn  a  resplendent  uniform.  He  had 
always  pictured  him  in  his  mind  in  that  garb.  Mr.  Dean 
told  him  he  could  use  the  space  if  he  would  build  a 
booth  that  would  not  deface  the  front  of  the  building, 
and  added  "  whatever  Dan  says  about  the  rent  will  be 
all  right." 

Dan,  who  would  have  been  a  great  politician  if  he 
had  not  been  such  a  conservative,  told  Dominico :  "  The 
rent  will  be  all  right,  Minico,  if  we  carry  our  ward  for 
Mr.  Dean's  delegates  to  the  County  Convention." 

Heaven  forfend  that  I  should  let  a  line  of  politics 
creep  into  this  history,  but  I  cannot  refrain  from  re 
cording  that  by  an  unexpectedly  heavy  Italian  vote 
Dan's  ward  secured  for  Mr.  Dean  a  solid  District  Dele 
gation  in  the  County  Convention,  which  enabled  Mr. 
Dean  to  name  the  Delegates  to  the  State  Convention 
from  his  District,  who,  voting  solidly  under  his  direc 
tion,  turned  the  scales  in  favor  of  the  man  who  was 
nominated  for  Governor — and  elected;  and  who  prob 
ably  never  happened  to  meet  Dominico  Cortese,  fruit 
pedler. 

4 


CHAPTER    IV. 

A  NOTABLE  CONCESSION  TO  CUPID. 

So  it  came  to  pass  when  Maggie  Lyon  half  carried 
Teresa  up  the  three  flights  of  tenement  stairs  and  led 
her  to  the  room  where  Tom  was  with  Carminella,  and 
Teresa  fell  on  her  knees,  sobbing  and  praying,  and 
kissing  the  baby,  and  Maggie  took  Tom  away,  there 
were  two  aristocrats  on  that  floor,  for  Dominico  now 
shared  that  distinction  with  Dan,  and  both  aristocrats 
were  slaves  of  the  beautiful  little  daughter  of  the  tene 
ment,  Carminella.  When  Teresa  could  stop  crying  for 
the  joy  of  holding  her  baby  in  her  arms  again,  she  saw 
that  the  room  she  was  in  was  furnished  with  all  of  her 
belongings,  her  bed,  her  scant  furniture  and  trunk,  the 
baby's  crib,  and  their  few  clothes.  Her  room  fronted 
on  the  court,  and  as  Dominico  had  the  only  other  room 
on  that  side  of  the  hall,  these,  with  Dan's  three,  were 
all  the  rooms  on  that  floor  of  the  narrow  and  shallow 
tenement.  "So  you  see,  Teresa,"  said  Maggie,  when 
she  went  back  to  her  after  Teresa  had  become  quiet, 
"it's  not  so  bad.  Uncle  Dan  has  his  rooms  taken  care 
of  every  day.  and  swept  once  a  week,  and  he  makes 
Dominico  do  the  same  with  his,  and  there's  plenty  of 
girls  in  our  business  who  live  in  no  better  quarters,  if 
they  are  in  a  better  part  of  the  city."  She  added  with 
a  laugh,  "  It's  a  mighty  sight  better  than  I  had  when  I 
lived  on  Cherry  Hill." 

36 


A  Notable  Concession  to  Cupid.  37 

"  And  better  than  I  ever  had  before  I  came  to  this 
country,"  said  Teresa. 

"  Until  you  go  back  to  work  again  you  can  take  care 
of  the  rooms.  The  woman  who  lived  here  and  did  that 
has  gone  away, and  you  can  eat  with  Uncle  Dan,  who'll 
be  glad  enough  to  have  some  one  around,  because  it  will 
help  keep  Tom  off  the  street  at  night,  which  is  the  dread 
of  Uncle  Dan's  life,  so  it's  not  so  bad,  is  it?" 

Teresa  kissed  the  handsome,  big-hearted  Irish  girl, 
but  did  not  make  any  other  answer,  for  she  was  crying 
again.  Then  Tom  came  in,  and  the  baby  set  up  a 
shout  of  laughter,  for  she  and  Tom  were  already  tre 
mendous  friends.  That  was  the  way  Dan  found  them 
when  he  came  up,  pretending  it  was  for  his  lunch,  al 
though  it  was  really  to  see  if  Carminella's  mother  had 
arrived  all  right;  and  the  women  cooked  him  such  a 
meal  he  declared  that  if  he  were  not  an  oldster  he'd  be 
thinking  of  giving  Tom  a  new  mother,  and  keep  Te 
resa  there  altogether. 

"  But  she  has  a  man  already,"  laughed  Maggie,  "  and 
you're  not  to  marry  again,  Uncle  Dan,  until  after  I  get 
what's  coming  to  me  from  your  will." 

"  And  I'd  make  a  sorry  husband  when  you're  reading 
my  will,  Maggie,"  said  Dan,  and  then  asked  seriously: 
"Are  you  hearing  anything  from  your  man,  Teresa?" 

She  had  heard  nothing.  Maggie  said  the  orchestra 
leader  had  heard  he  had  gone  west,  and  added  a  fer 
vent  wish  that  bad  luck  would  go  with  him.  But  she 
did  not  add  that,  good  or  bad  luck,  a  chorus  girl  had 
gone  with  him,  although  she  and  all  the  people  in  the 
company  knew  such  was  the  fact. 

That  night,  when  Carminella  had  been  put  to  bed, 
Teresa  went  to  Dan's  room,  where  he  wanted  to  show 
her  Tom's  drawings.  Dan  was  immensely  proud  of 


}8  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

this  accomplishment  of  the  boy's,  and  wanted  Teresa's 
opinion  about  sending  him  to  a  night-school  where 
drawing  was  taught. 

"  He  has  great  learning  already,"  said  Dan  proudly, 
"and  he's  not  to  go  to  work  until  he's  fourteen,  though 
what  there  can  be  to  teach  him  for  four  years  more  I 
can't  understand,  unless  it  is  some  fancy  dido  like  this 
drawing;  they  do  say  if  you  get  to  be  a  boss  at  that 
there's  great  wages  in  it." 

Tom  brought  out  his  drawings,  which  were  on  cards 
and  half  pages  of  office  writing-paper,  and  a  curious  as 
sortment  of  waste  sheets  Dan  picked  up  from  the  floors 
of  the  offices  in  the  Niantic  Building,  after  the  offices 
were  closed  for  the  day  and  before  the  sweepers  went  to 
work.  Teresa  looked  over  the  crude,  untaught  sketches 
with  wonder.  She  recognized  a  glimpse  of  the  street, 
a  scene  in  the  court,  and  a  dozen  heads  of  Carminella. 
Tom  blushed  and  was  mighty  proud  of  that.  Teresa 
told  him  that  she  had  seen  the  work  of  great  masters  in 
Italian  cities  where  she  lived  as  a  girl  before  she  came 
to  this  country,  and  said  his  pictures  of  Carminella 
were  as  like  her  as  the  pictures  by  the  great  were  like 
the  people  they  painted.  You  see,  Teresa  was  not  an 
artist,  except  in  the  way  of  being  agreeable  when  she 
wanted  to  be,  so  there  was  an  excuse  for  her  ignorant 
slander  of  the  great. 

"  It's  what  Minico  is  always  saying!"  exclaimed  Dan. 
"  He  is  saying  that  if  Tom  could  be  apprenticed,  like, 
to  a  boss  at  this  job,  he'd  be  making  more  money  than 
any  of  us.  There's  a  fine  night-school  up  at  Cooper 
Institute,  just  at  the  head  of  the  Bowery,  where  they 
teach  this  drawing,  and  I'll  be  thinking  of  sending  the 
boy  there  when  he's  a  little  older." 

"If  it's  like  dancing  he  can't  begin  too  little,"  Te- 


A  Notable  Concession  to  Cupid.  39 

resa  said,  in  her  slow,  cautious  English.  "  I'll  begin  to 
teach  Carminella  dancing  when  she's  three.  I  wish 
they'd  begun  with  me  then.  You  can't  learn  to  do  the 
best  if  you  begin  bigger." 

They  sat  about  Dan's  lamp  talking,  Tom  trying  with 
eager  diligence  to  draw  Teresa's  face,  until  Dominico 
was  heard  coming  heavily  up  the  stairs.  Dan  called 
him.  The  Italian  looked  into  the  room,  saw  Teresa, 
slammed  the  door,  and  they  heard  him  hurry  to  his 
room. 

"  What's  happened  the  man,  I  wonder?"  said  Dan. 

What  happened  to  Dominico  was  that,  seeing  Teresa, 
he  went  to  his  room,  lit  a  candle,  and  shaved  off  a  two 
days'  growth  of  beard,  thick  as  plush,  and  then,  after 
scrubbing  his  reddened  face  until  it  seemed  ready  to 
bleed,  and  putting  a  bright  red  and  yellow  silk  scarf 
into  the  collar  of  his  blue  flannel  shirt,  he  returned  and 
made  an  awkward  bow  to  his  countrywoman.  He  spoke 
to  her  in  Italian,  and  she  answered  in  English. 

"That's  right,  girl!"  exclaimed  Dan,  "  make  him 
talk  American.  Sure  the  man's  a  citizen  and  a  mer 
chant,  and  he  talks  like  one  of  us  natives  when  he  ain't 
excited." 

Tom  was  sent  to  bed  so  that  Dominico  might  have  a 
chair,  and  Dan  asked  the  merchant  about  his  business. 
There  was  trouble,  Dominico  said.  He  was  at  his  busi 
ness  from  six  in  the  morning  until  midnight,  except  at 
dinner  time,  when  he  left  the  stand  in  charge  of  a  ped- 
ler  he  paid  to  relieve  him.  He  believed  the  pedler 
was  the  greatest  thief  outside  the  Tombs,  and  that  was 
discouraging  in  general,  and  in  particular,  because,  if 
he  had  some  one  he  could  trust  to  relieve  him,  not  only 
at  meal  times,  but  at  the  dull  hours  of  the  day  when 
he  could  sleep,  he  would  keep  the  stand  open  all  night 


40  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

in  pleasant  weather.  There  was  a  good  all-night  trade  on 
the  Bowery,  and  he  felt  he  was  losing  the  chance  of  his 
life  not  to  take  advantage  of  it.  He  called  upon  Madonna 
to  tell  him  why  all  pedlers  he  could  hire  were  cheats 
and  thieves  and  robbers,  in  addition  to  being  pigs. 

Dominico  talked  so  fast  and  in  such  indifferent  Eng 
lish,  Teresa  could  not  understand  all  he  said.  She 
was  accustomed  to  the  more  precise  speech  and  clearer 
enunciation  of  the  stage,  as  you  could  easily  guess  if 
you  heard  her  English,  but  she  had  understood  enough 
to  know  that  Dominico  wanted  to  employ  help  he  could 
trust.  She  had  in  sight  an  income  of  only  a  dollar  and 
a  half  a  week  for  taking  care  of  the  rooms  on  the  floor. 
That  would  only  pay  for  her  room,  and  Carminella 
must  have  clothes  and  delicate  things  to  eat  which 
Dan's  larder  did  not  afford.  The  next  day  she  went  to 
Dan  and  asked  if  she  could  not  help  Dominico.  Dan 
said  he  would  think  about  it.  He  never  decided 
weighty  matters  of  business  off-hand.  He  did  think 
about  it  and  talked  to  Dominico.  The  Italian  said  it 
would  be  just  the  thing.  He  could  trust  her:  he  knew 
that,  he  said,  the  minute  he  saw  her;  and  a  handsome 
woman  would  attract  customers,  for  did  not  the  wife  of 
Riccodonna  sell  more  fruit  at  their  stand  near  Domi- 
nico's  in  six  hours,  than  her  husband  sold  in  eighteen? 
and  while  she  was  pretty,  as  the  women  of  the  Bend 
went,  Madonna  knew  she  weighed  surely  three  hundred 
pounds,  and  was  a  hag  in  comparison  with  Teresa;  be 
sides  which,  Riccodonna  sold  second-grade  fruit  and 
was  no  better  than  a  bandit.  Dominico's  enthusiasm 
suddenly  abated  when  Dan  mentioned  the  subject  of 
wages.  He  could  give  Teresa  two  dollars  a  week,  he 
thought,  and  Dan  thought  he  could  give  her  five :  two 
for  her  services,  three  for  her  beauty. 


RICCODONNA. 
•Sold  second-grade  fruit,  and  was  no  better  than  a  bandit."— Page  40. 


A  Notable  Concession  to  Cupid.  41* 

They  compromised  on  four  dollars  a  week,  if,  as 
Dominico  had  incautiously  suggested,  Teresa  not  only 
enabled  him  to  keep  the  stand  open  more  hours,  but 
attracted  customers  from  Riccodonna.  Within  a  week 
after  she  first  came  to  the  Bend  Teresa  went  to  the 
stand  in  front  of  the  Tivoli  to  learn  the  mysteries  of 
the  retail  fruit  business.  She  went  at  hours  when  Tom 
was  at  home  to  look  after  Carminella,  and  in  two  weeks 
Dominico  was  serenely  sleeping  during  those  hours. 
Then  the  stand  was  kept  open  by  him  all  night,  and 
he  actually  began  dreaming  of  having  a  real  store  of 
his  own,  so  much  did  his  trade  improve. 

But  there  was  something  else  he  dreamed  about,  wak 
ing  and  sleeping,  and  that  was  Teresa,  his  handsome 
countrywoman.  He  did  not  sigh  and  keep  these  dreams 
to  himself.  Dominico  was  young,  good-looking  and 
successful.  He  knew  that  there  was  not  a  maid  of 
Mulberry  Bend  he  could  not  have  for  the  asking,  but 
he  had  not  cared  to  ask.  His  best  quality  was  his 
proper  appreciation  of  his  own  merits,  and  until  he  saw 
Teresa  he  had  not  met  any  woman,  he  frankly  stated, 
deserving  of  him. 

He  told  all  this  and  much  more  to  Teresa,  nor  was 
he  discouraged  when  she  urged  the  impediment  of  a 
presumably  living  husband.  There  is  a  thing  known 
in  Mulberry  Bend,  yes,  and  in  other  parts  of  the  city, 
as  "common-law  marriage."  Dominico  was  a  trifle 
vague  in  his  understanding  of  what  kind  of  law  com 
mon  law  was,  but  he  knew  it  was  binding  in  the  af 
fair  of  matrimony.  How  the  existence  of  another  hus 
band  would  complicate  the  situation  he  did  not  know, 
but  he  would  consult  Dan,  who  knew  everything. 
Dan,  of  course,  took  the  subject  under  advisement, 
and  he  first  went  to  see  Maggie  about  Teresa's  mar- 


42  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

riage,  and  was  assured  by  her  that  it  had  been  proper 
and  ceremonial,  with  priest  and  ring.  When  the  situ 
ation  was  explained  to  Maggie,  she  confided  to  her 
uncle  that  there  would  be  no  trouble,  if  Teresa  wanted 
her  liberty.  There  were  members  of  the  company 
who  had  knowledge  of  Ettore,  Teresa's  husband,  relat 
ing  to  the  chorus  girl  who  had  disappeared  when  Ettore 
did,  which  would  warrant  a  Court  in  giving  her  her 
freedom. 

Six  months  later  Teresa  was  divorced.  Dan  arranged 
the  marriage  settlement.  He  did  more;  for  it  was  his 
advice  which  finally  induced  Teresa  to  accept  Domi- 
nico.  He  told  her  that  her  lover  was  destined  for  great 
things.  He  already  had  five  hundred  dollars  to  his 
credit  in  Dan's  bank-account.  He  was  industrious, 
sober,  and  strong.  Her  marriage  with  him  would  in 
sure  Carminella  proper  care  and  education.  Minico 
would  make  any  reasonable  provision  which  Teresa 
demanded  for  her  daughter's  future. 

Teresa  seemed  unreasonable  in  her  demands.  She 
insisted  that  if  she  married  they  should  not  live  in  less 
than  two  rooms,  one  of  which  should  be  Carminella's; 
that  they  should  not  have  lodgers;  that  Carminella 
should  be  kept  in  school  until  she  was  fourteen  years  of 
age;  and  that  each  week  until  she  left  school,  Dominico 
should  put  one  dollar  in  a  savings  bank  for  Carmi 
nella. 

When  Dan  submitted  these  conditions  to  Dominico 
the  Italian  called  upon  Santa  Maria  to  say  if  he  were  a 
millionaire,  and  if  he  had  not  always  sold  the  first 
grade  of  fruit  when  his  competitors  sold  second  grade 
at  the  same  price!  Had  Teresa  been  reared  in  the  lap 
of  luxury  all  her  life  that  she  should  demand  such  con 
ditions;  or  had  she  worked  hard  for  a  living  and  been 


A  Notable  Concession  to  Cupid.  43 

deserted  by  one  husband?  And  had  not  he,  Dominico 
Cortese,  paid  the  cost  of  her  divorce?  Gesu! 

But  Teresa  was  obstinate,  and  Dominico  was  in  love, 
and  so  they  were  married.  It  was  a  civil  marriage,  for 
Teresa  divorced  could  not  be  married  by  a  priest. 
"But  we'll  have  the  priest,"  said  Dan,  "when  your 
first  man  is  dead;  and  they  do  say  the  West  is  a  terrible 
place  for  killing  people,  and  that's  where  Ettore  is 
now." 

To  tell  the  truth,  and  in  this  instance  I  tell  it  with 
pleasure,  Teresa  was  nearly  in  love  with  Dominico.  He 
belonged  to  her  class,  which  Ettore  did  not;  he  was 
fond  of  Carminella,  and  Ettore  had  hated  the  baby ;  he 
had  employed  her  where  otherwise  she  must  have 
begged;  and  he  was  an  honest  and  kind-hearted  fellow, 
whereas  Ettore!  —  But  above  and  beyond  all  other 
things,  Carminella  had  been  provided  for  until  she 
could  provide  for  herself.  Teresa  had  a  secret  plan  for 
the  child  which  she  hoped  this  marriage  would  permit 
her  to  carry  out.  At  fourteen  she  could  be  sent  to  Italy 
to  study  with  the  money  which  would  then  be  hers,  and 
taught  to  be  a  great  dancer.  Perhaps  she  would  have 
a  voice — Ettore  had  a  fine  one — and  would  become  a 
great  singer. 

And  there,  with  my  story  just  begun,  I  have  married 
Teresa  twice,  and,  do  the  best  I  can  for  her,  I  fear  it 
looks  as  if  her  second  marriage,  as  much — or  nearly  as 
much — as  her  first,  was  actuated  by  worldly  pride  and 
ambition.  I  really  did  think,  before  I  learned  her 
story,  that  one  could  have  done  with  the  vanities  of  the 
world  by  going  into  the  slums,  but  there,  too,  it  ap 
pears,  are  both  false  pride  and  mere  worldly  striving, 
both  of  which  I  condemn  and  despise.  Honest,  simple 
worth  for  me.  The  poor  should  always  be  lowly,  for 


44  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

where  can  you  find  anything  more  compelling  of  admi 
ration  than  among  the  lowly  poor?  Let  those  who  will 
find  aught  to  admire  among  the  rich  and  proud.  By 
the  way,  we  jump  twelve  )rears  in  the  next  chapter,  and 
some  chapters  later  meet  people  of  wealth  and  position. 
Not  comparative,  but  actual  great  wealth,  I'll  have  you 
understand,  sir,  and  position  than  which  there  is  none 
higher,  finer,  or  more  enviable  in  the  city,  madam! 


CHAPTER    V. 

A  DANCER'S  GIRL,  A  JANITOR'S  BOY. 

TWELVE  years!  Really  it  is  not  such  an  age  of  time 
if  you  look  at  it  from  a  certain  view-point,  and  are 
lucky  enough  to  have  that  view-point  to  look  from. 
There  is  Jack  Daring,  if  you  please,  who  walks  over 
exactly  the  same  miles,  yards,  and  feet  of  Fifth  Avenue 
sidewalk  to-day  that  he  did  twelve  years  ago,  every  day 
he  is  in  town ;  rides  over  exactly  the  same  number  of 
miles  of  road  daily  when  he  is  in  the  country;  takes 
exactly  the  same  number  of  cocktails  before  dinner  and 
the  same  number  of  glasses  of  whiskey  and  water  after 
dinner,  for  he  is  a  conservative  in  the  matter  of  chang 
ing  the  quantity  of  his  stimulant ;  goes  to  the  opera  with 
Mrs.  Jack  the  same  number  of  subscription  nights;  and 
can  recall  but  two  events  which  fix  certain  of  those 
passing  twelve  years.  Six  years  ago  (Jack  can  give 
you  the  day  and  month),  he  beat  Colonel  Bob  Billings 
six  straight  games  of  pool,  which  never  happened  be 
fore  or  since;  and  four  years  ago  his  butler  died  of  a 
stroke  of  apoplexy.  Jack  has  not  had  one  since  who 
could  mix  a  cocktail  fit  for  a  gentleman  to  drink,  and 
therefore  Jack  remembers  the  year  in  which  the  man 
was  so  thoughtless  as  to  die. 

But  on  the  other  hand,  to  Tom  Lyon,  twelve  years 
since  we  saw  him  last  had  brought  experiences  beyond 
his  wildest  imaginings:  had  been  a  whole  lifetime  to 
him;  had  unfolded  new  and  undreamt-of  worlds.  He 

45 


46  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

lived  yet  in  the  only  rooms  he  had  ever  known  as  home, 
in  the  same  back  tenement  in  Mulberry  Bend;  and  al 
though  he  chafed  at  times  over  that,  he  had  agreed  with 
his  father  to  stay  there  until  the  block  should  be  con- 
,  verted  into  a  park,  and  the  city  had  already  begun  pro 
ceedings  to  that  end.  "Then, "said  Dan,  "we'll  have 
a  home  of  our  own,  where  you  can  bring  your  fine 
friends,"  and  more  than  this  Dan  would  not  say,  al 
though  whenever  he  made  the  remark  he  showed 
plainly  that  he  could  speak  volumes  more  on  the  sub 
ject  if  he  would. 

Tom  had  remained  in  the  public  schools,  as  the  meth 
odical  Dan  had  planned,  until  he  was  fourteen  years 
old.  A  teacher  of  drawing  came  to  the  school  the  last 
two  years.  The  teacher  was  not  a  very  good  artist,  in 
fact  he  was  a  very  poor  one,  but  he  was  befriended  by 
a  great  man  who  had  influence  with  a  small  politician 
who  was  acquainted  with  a  school  commissioner  who 
had  the  appointment  to  make,  and  with  whom  he  di 
vided  the  money  the  great  man  paid  to  have  the  artist 
provided  for.  Once  a  week  the  artist  went  to  Tom's 
school  for  an  hour,  and  the  scholars  devoted  that  hour 
to  skylarking,  until  the  drawing-master,  who  was  sim 
ple  and  conscientious,  arranged  to  take  the  few  scholars 
who  showed  any  evidence  of  aptitude  with  their  pencils, 
into  a  separate  class-room.  Then  Tom  made  progress, 
such  marked  progress,  that  the  master  one  day  gave 
him  a  letter  to  his  father  advising  that  Tom  be  sent  to 
the  night  art-class  at  Cooper  Union. 

When  Tom  was  fourteen  he  went  into  Mr.  Dean's 
service  as  an  office  boy,  but  in  two  years  was  employed 
as  call  boy  on  the  stage  of  the  Tivoli  Theatre.  When 
he  was  eighteen  he  was  assisting  the  scene  painter,  and 
then  he  went  to  his  father  and  told  him  he  was  going 


A  Dancer's  Girl,  A  Janitor's  Boy.  47 

to  use  part  of  his  wages  to  enter  the  Life  Class  in  the 
Art  Students1  League.  He  had  submitted  a  drawing  to 
the  League  and  found  that  he  could  enter  the  class,  and 
his  mind  was  made  up. 

Dan  pretended  to  "  take  the  matter  under  considera 
tion,"  as  was  his  wont,  but  he  saw  that  he  had  to  agree. 
He  was  proud  of  Tom,  who  was  a  stalwart,  handsome 
boy,  was  proud  of  his  behavior,  his  good  morals,  his 
honesty  about  his  wages,  and  was  fearful  with  a  fear 
that  he  never  expressed,  but  which  sometimes  made 
him  start  from  his  sleep  at  night  in  terror,  that  Tom 
would  break  away  from  his  home  restraint  and  good 
habits,  and  become  like  Bill,  a  wayward  outcast.  Dan 
had  some  appreciation,  too,  of  the  fact  that  Tom's  love 
of  art  and  devotion  to  its  study  were  in  a  way  an  ex 
pression  of  the  things  in  his  nature  or  temperament 
which  had  saved  him.  The  old  man  was  close  with  the 
boy  in  money  matters.  From  the  first  he  had  insisted 
upon  having  all  his  wages,  but  he  made  him  a  weekly 
allowance,  raised  from  time  to  time  as  Tom  developed 
his  one  extravagance,  a  love  of  fine  clothes — sinfully 
fine,  Dan  thought,  for  a  boy  in  his  position.  So  the 
allowance  \vas  increased  again  for  the  moderate  ex 
penses  at  the  Art  Students'  League,  and  Tom  began  his 
morning  trips  to  the  League  class-rooms,  but  performed 
all  of  his  duties  on  the  paint-bridge  of  the  Tivoli,  too. 
He  grew  thin  and  peaked  with  his  long,  hard  study  and 
work.  It  was  Teresa  who  noticed  this  first,  but  Tom 
only  laughed  when  his  father  told  him  what  Teresa  had 
said  about  it.  The  fever  of  his  art  burned  in  him,  and 
ambition  was  born.  Sometimes,  when  he  took  beau 
tiful  fourteen-year  old  Carminella  to  the  free  galleries 
to  see  the  exhibitions,  or  to  the  Museum  in  Central 
Park  on  free  days,  he  would  tell  her  what  he  knew 


48  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

of  the  great  masters  whose  work  they  saw,  and  when 
she  would  say,  "  You  will  be  great  like  them  too,  some 
day,  Tom,"  he  would  set  his  teeth  and  lips  as  if  to  lock 
his  speech,  but  then  pour  out  to  the  half-comprehend 
ing  child  the  strength  of  his  hope  and  ambitions,  and 
laugh  for  pure  joy  of  expression. 

Carminella  never  told  at  home  of  these  confidences. 
She  had  some  comprehension  of  a  difference  between 
Tom  and  the  other  people  of  the  Bend.  His  study  and 
working  hours,  especially  his  association  with  the  pupils 
and  masters  of  the  Art  School,  were  refining  him,  and 
had  a  supple  nature  to  influence.  In  their  youthful 
excursions  together  to  the  city  art  galleries  and  parks, 
where  their  pleasure  was  on  a  plane  far  above  the  hard 
material  conditions  of  their  home  surroundings,  Car 
minella  grew  to  mentally  group  Tom  with  the  other 
gentler  people  she  had  known — the  women  who  came  to 
teach  in  the  mission  schools  where  her  own  charac 
ter  had  been  moulded  during  these  twelve  years. 

When  Carminella  was  four  years  old  Teresa  had 
taken  her  to  a  charity  school  near  the  Bend.  Teresa 
anxiously  studied  the  refined  face  of  the  woman  she 
met  there  and  talked  with  about  Carminella.  She 
should  bring  the  child  every  morning  and  call  for  her 
every  evening,  she  said.  The  child  should  never  be 
alone,  never  go  or  come  without  her.  Would  she  be 
taken  care  of  and  taught?  The  lady  had  Carminella 
on  her  knees  and  was  wondering  at  her  great  beauty, 
and  wondering,  too,  in  a  practical  way,  at  her  whole 
and  wholesome  clothing,  and  at  the  precise,  slow  Eng 
lish  speech  of  the  mother.  "  Would  the  child  be  under 
the  care  of  a  lady;  hear  a  lady's  language?"  Teresa 
asked. 

"  Just  now  she  will  be  under  my  care,  and  always  in 


A  Dancer's  Girl,  A  Janitor's  Boy.  49 

the  charge  of  some  Daughter,  as  we  call  ourselves," 
the  lady  answered,  smiling. 

Teresa  started  to  go,  then  turned,  bent  over  the  lady's 
hand,  kissed  it,  and  sobbed,  "  God  will  bless  you  if  you 
will  be  good  to  my  baby.  I  want  her  to  be  good. 
Good!  Do  you  know?" 

"  I  think  I  know.  We  are  here  to  make  good  men 
and  women  by  teaching  the  children  what  goodness  is," 
the  Daughter  said,  simply. 

To  that,  and  to  other  mission  schools  Carminella 
went  until  she  was  fourteen ;  never  without  Teresa  or 
Tom  in  going  and  returning.  When  she  was  not  in 
school  Teresa  watched  Carminella  hourly.  On  holi 
days,  Teresa  took  the  girl  with  her  to  the  stand,  and 
Carminella,  with  book  or  sewing,  sat  by  her  mother's 
side  in  the  recess  at  the  back  of  the  stand,  or  helped 
her  when  customers  were  plenty. 

One  thing  Teresa  herself  taught  her,  to  dance.  Pa 
tiently,  laboriously,  tirelessly,  with  infinite  care,  the 
woman  who  could  dance  no  more,  for  that  slight 
lameness  had  never  entirely  disappeared,  trained  the 
child's  muscles,  bones,  flesh,  blood,  almost,  so  that  she 
could  dance.  In  all  of  the  mere  physical  accomplish 
ments  of  a  great  premiere  danseuse  Carminella  ex 
celled  at  fourteen.  All  that  she  lacked  was  broad  prac 
tice.  It  was  as  if  one  had  been  drilled  for  years  in 
piano  playing  and  confined  to  technical  skill  and  rapid 
reading  in  difficult  exercises,  and  had  never  played,  or 
been  shown,  an  imaginative  composition. 

Teresa  wanted  to  send  her  to  Professor  Polli,  who 
had  become  a  famous  ballet-master,  but  to  this  Do- 
minico  would  not  agree.  He  could  not  spare  the 
money  it  would  cost.  Times  had  not  always  been 
prosperous  at  the  fruit-stand.  The  despised  Ricco- 
5 


50  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

donna  and  other  equally  despised  keepers  of  neighbor 
ing  stands  had  made  competition  sharp,  and  they  un 
dersold  Dominico.  Then  Dominico  tried  their  trade 
trick  of  dealing  in  second-grade  fruit,  and  nearly  went 
insane  when  he  lost  much  of  his  custom  thereby.  The 
monstrous  Riccodonna  heard  of  this  and  improved  the 
quality  of  his  stock  just  as  Dominico  lowered  his,  and, 
as  with  rage  and  despair  Dominico  saw  customers  he 
had  had  for  years  buying  of  his  hated  rival,  he  grew 
gray  and  wrinkled.  There  were  other  troubles  that 
unhappy  Italian  had;  Teresa  always  insisted  on  the 
two  rooms,  and  when  he  urged  that  to  mitigate  the 
direful  state  of  finances  brought  about  by  his  extrava 
gance  in  rooms,  and  Riccodonna's  monstrous  trade 
tricks,  they  might  at  least  take  in  three  or  four  lodgers, 
who  could  easily  be  accommodated  in  one  room,  Teresa 
took  Carminella  in  her  arms  and  fled  to  Dan's  room, 
and  it  required  all  of  Dan's  diplomacy  to  bring  about  a 
reconciliation. 

"  You  made  a  contract,  my  man,"  Dan  said  to  the  dis 
tressed  and  weeping  Dominico,  "  and  you  got  a  good 
woman  by  it" 

"  But  is  Carminella  a  princess  that  she  is  not  to  live 
in  rooms  with  lodgers,  and  is  not  to  work  until  she  is 
fourteen?"  exclaimed  Dominico. 

"  It's  against  the  factory  laws  for  the  children  to  work 
before  they  are  fourteen,"  replied  Dan,  who  was  not 
only  wise  in  the  laws  for  the  poor,  but  a  stanch  up 
holder  of  them. 

"What  is  the  law?"  wailed  Dominico.  "There  is 
Riccodonna,  a  pig  and  thief,  who  has  two  children,  ten 
and  twelve  years  old,  and  they  make  together  two  dol 
lars  a  week.  It  is  so  that  he  puts  in  the  bank  a  hun 
dred  dollars  a  year  from  their  earnings." 


DOMINICO. 
But  is  Carminella  a  princess?" — Page  50. 


A  Dancer's  Girl,  A  Janitor's  Boy.  51 

"  But  he  must  have  the  certificate  that  they  are  over 
fourteen,"  said  Dan,  in  surprise. 

"The  certificate!"  exclaimed  Dominico,  in  disdain. 
"You  know  how  to  keep  the  laws,  not  how  to  get 
around  them.  There  is  the  notario  publico  in  the  sa 
loon  across  the  street  who  gives  all  who  want  such 
certificates  for  twenty-five  cents  each." 

This  was  true  enough,  and  it  was  true  that  Dan  did  not 
know  of  it,  for  he  had  never  sought  means  to  evade  any 
law.  When  he  found  out  that  Dominico  was  right,  and 
had  the  commission  of  the  complaisant  notary  public 
revoked,  he  was  cursed  for  a  meddling  aristocrat — and 
a  rival  notary  over  on  East  Broadway  profited  much. 

So  Dominico  let  Carminella  remain  in  school  the 
agreed  time  and  did  not  take  lodgers,  but  he  .would  not 
pay  for  instructions  under  Professor  Polli,  because  that 
was  not  in  the  contract. 

Teresa  had  long  ago  abandoned  her  hope  of  sending 
Carminella  to  Italy.  That  dream  vanished  when  she 
found  that  the  dollar  a  week  Dominico  gave  her  for 
Carminella  would  not  stay  in  the  bank,  hard  as  she 
strove  to  keep  it  there.  Not  a  penny  of  it  was  ever 
used  for  herself,  but  Carminella  had  to  have  comfort 
able  and  respectable  clothes,  and  books,  and  the  allow 
ance  did  little  more  than  satisfy  Teresa's  pride  for  Car 
minella  in  these  respects. 

During  the  last  two  years  of  her  school  life,  Car 
minella  had  been  something  like  a  special  pupil  of 
the  mission  teachers.  She  was  older  than  the  other 
scholars,  more  intelligent,  more  companionable,  be 
cause  of  her  mind  and  body  untainted  by  the  slums; 
and  her  beauty  won  the  heart  of  every  woman  who 
went  among  the  tenement  schools  doing  Christ's  work. 
In  the  last  six  months  she  had  really  aided  the  latest 


52  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

recruit  who  had  come  from  that  mysterious  other 
world  of  homes,  to  brighten  and  better  this  world  of 
tenements. 

"I  am  sure  I  could  not  teach  you  anything,"  the 
stranger  had  said  to  Carminella,  "you  must  be  so  much 
wiser  in  these  matters  than  I  ever  hope  to  be;  I  will  be 
the  pupil,  or  at  best  your  assistant."  Those  last  six 
months  were  happy  days  for  Carminella.  Her  teacher 
then  was  Miss  Eleanor  Hazelhurst,  who,  as  everybody 
knows  who  is  familiar  with  the  directory  of  the  old 
families  on  Washington  Square,  is  the  younger  of  the 
two  daughters  of  Dr.  Hazelhurst  ("  Doctor"  not  in 
medicine,  but  in  nearly  every  other  science  and  art 
whose  degrees  are  in  the  gift  of  the  Universities  of 
America  and  Europe),  who  married  into  conjugal  bliss, 
a  Washington  Square  home,  a  comfortable  fortune,  and 
leisure  to  pursue  his  studies  in  "  Egyptology  antedating 
Rameses  I."  Although  you  are  to  be  formally  pre 
sented  to  the  learned  doctor  and  his  charming  family 
under  polite  circumstances  (and  I  for  one  wish  this 
story  would  promptly  reach  those  same  polite  circum 
stances;  for  it  begins  to  appear  that  the  poor  are  with 
us  not  only  always,  but  allwheres!),  I  feel  that  a  word 
about  Eleanor  Hazelhurst  should  be  inserted  here  the 
better  to  understand  the  personal  influence  which,  more 
than  any  other,  affected  Carminella's  character.  Elea 
nor  was  only  twenty-one  years  old  when  she  first  ap 
peared,  one  morning,  as  a  teacher  in  the  mission-school 
class  Carminella  attended.  She  was  the  youngest  of 
any  of  the  teachers  Carminella  had  ever  known,  and 
more  beautiful  than  the  child  thought  a  woman  could 
be.  The  Italian  girl's  ideas  about  the  young  teacher's 
beauty  were  undoubtedly  affected  by  Eleanor's  charac 
ter,  which,  indeed,  was  beautiful,  and,  as  I  have  ex- 


A  Dancer's  Girl,  A  Janitor's  Boy.  53 

plained,  her  friendly  attitude  toward  Carminella.  She 
imparted  to  the  Italian  child's  responsive,  emotional 
nature  something  of  her  own  simplicity  and  high-mind- 
edness.  As  Teresa  had  taught  Carminella  to  stand 
erect  and  yet  at  ease,  to  walk  with  grace  and  buoyancy, 
to  move  all  her  muscles  with  decision  and  fearlessness, 
yet  with  a  reserve  of  force  which  could  check,  extend, 
make  slow  or  quick,  suave  or  elastic,  and  in  all  ways 
instantly  control  physical  action,  so  Eleanor's  example 
and  teaching  affected  the  girl's  mind  and  spirit.  Per 
haps  I  should  have  said  her  teaching  by  example,  for 
Eleanor  had  had  no  training  in  the  fine  art  of  imparting 
knowledge.  She  had  taken  up  this  work  because  of 
an  interest  excited  in  tenement  mission-work  by  sto 
ries  told  by  a  young  newspaper  man  named  Philip 
Peyton. 

"But  my  dear  Helen,"  exclaimed  her  sister  Minnie, 
the  worldly,  "  that's  no  reason  why  you  should  go  into 
the  slums  any  more  than  I  should,  or  papa  or  mamma. 
He  tells  the  stories  to  us  all.  It  comes  of  Phil  Peyton 
pretending  to  be  a  newspaper  man,  and  learning  all 
sorts  of  ridiculous  things  about  parts  of  the  city  which 
never  bothered  us  until  we  came  to  know  about  them. 
I  think  it's  absurd  to  want  to  know  about  a  thing  which 
you  know  perfectly  well  is  going  to  make  you  unhappy 
when  you  know  it.  If  I  were  papa  I  should  forbid 
you." 

The  smile  with  which  Eleanor  received  this  last  de 
noted  exactly  how  much  danger  there  was  from  pa 
ternal  injunction. 

Mrs.  Hazelhurst  said  (this  was  at  dinner),  with  an  air 
which  seemed  to  hint,  however,  at  parental  interfer 
ence,  "  All  charity  is  lovely  and  sweet,  of  course,  and 
I  hope  we  shall  always  give  in  accordance  with  our 


54  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

means;  but  there  are  numerous  societies  organized  for 
the  proper  distribution  of  such  gifts.  It  seems  to  me 
the  danger  of  Eleanor's  proposed  undertaking  is  in  the 
possible  publicity.  I'm  sure,  Doctor  (raising  her  voice 
slightly),  you  would  be  distressed  enough  to  have  the 
name  Hazelhurst  spread  out  in  all  the  papers  with  pic 
tures  of  Eleanor  in 

This  suggested  a  picture  whch  was  too  much  for  the 
worldly  one's  sense  of  humor,  and  Minnie  spoiled  her 
mother's  effect  by  interrupting  gravely,  "  With  pictures 
of  Eleanor  in  bloomers,  addressing  a  Salvation  Army 
meeting  at  Five  Points." 

The  doctor  looked  up  and  said  placidly:  "Well, 
well,  I  guess  we  are  all  distressing  ourselves  unnec 
essarily  about  this.  There  are  societies  to  direct  this 
work,  to  be  sure,  but  they  doubtless  need  field  vol 
unteers  of  a  class  which  cannot  be  hired ;  so  if  baby 
wants  to  try  the  experiment  it  may  be  wisest  for  us  not 
to  discourage  her." 

Dr.  Hazelhurst  was  engaged  in  researches  where 
in  events  most  closely  related  by  time  were  thou 
sands,  possibly  tens  of  thousands  of  years  apart,  and 
it  seemed  absurd,  something  like  a  presumption, 
for  the  child  who  was  a  baby  twenty  years  ago 
to  be  anything  else  now,  and  Eleanor  was  to  him 
always  "baby,"  Minnie  "daughter,"  collectively  "the 
children." 

Eleanor  had  not  entered  into  the  discussion.  It  was 
a  family  trait  that  the  one  who  purposed  doing  a  thing 
should  not  discuss  it,  for  the  reason,  perhaps,  that  no 
member  of  the  family  ever  abandoned  a  purpose  once 
announced.  The  others  discussed  it  as  they  might  the 
weather:  with  interest,  but  without  hope  of  chang 
ing  it.  To  soothe  the  family  dread  of  "publicity," 


A  Dancer's  Girl,  A  Janitor's  Boy.  55 

she  agreed  to  be  known  in  her  work  only  as  "  Miss 
Helen." 

Thus  it  came  about  that  in  the  last  part  of  the  im 
portant  twelve  years,  whose  passing  has  been  sketched 
in  this  chapter,  Carminella  came  under  the  benign  in 
fluence  of  Eleanor  Hazelhurst. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

ELEANOR'S   GLIMPSE    OF    TENEMENT    HADES. 

CARMINELLA  was  a  marvel  to  Eleanor  Hazelhurst, 
and  she  had  heard  there  were  beautiful  faces,  and  some 
times  beautiful  forms,  to  be  seen  among  the  young  wo 
men  or  older  girls  in  the  slums.  But  here  was  this  child 
in  years,  although  nearly  a  woman  in  stature,  who  not 
only  had  a  face  so  beautiful  that  it  startled,  and  an 
erect,  slight  figure  carried  with  grace,  but  who  was  gen 
tle  in  manner  and  speech.  She  expressed  this  surprise  to 
an  associate  in  her  work  once.  "  Oh,"  replied  the  more 
experienced  woman,  "you  have  our  prize  product,  our 
daughter  of  the  tenements,  as  we  call  her.  All  her  life 
nearly  she  has  been  associated  with  teachers  in  our 
schools,  or  similar' ones,  and  we  boast  of  her,  and  point 
her  out  to  our  patrons  as  an  example  of  what  we  could 
make  of  children  here  if  we  had  them  under  our  influ 
ence  long  enough.  But  they  are  usually  taken  from  us 
at  six  or  eight  years  of  age  to  help  their  fathers  and 
mothers  sewing  at  home  for  sweaters.  Before  children 
are  Carminella's  age  they  are  usually  employed  in  a 
factory  with  certificates  that  they  are  fourteen,  and 
long  before  that  our  efforts  to  save  them  have  been 
nullified  by  their  home  and  shop  surroundings.  Her 
mother  is  a  monomaniac,  and  her  mania,  happily,  is 
the  care  and  education  of  that  girl.  I  wonder  what  her 
life  is  to  be?" 

After  this,  Eleanor  made  an  equal  and  a  companion 

56 


Eleanor's  Glimpse  of  Tenement  Hades.  57 

of  Carminella  in  their  school  hours.  Carminella 
planned,  advised,  and  helped  in  the  school  work,  and 
"  Miss  Helen"  talked  with  her  in  their  moments  to 
gether  as  she  would  to  an  equal;  gave  her  books  to 
read  which  filled  the  child's  mind  with  wonder  and 
exaltation,  and  brightened  her  life  until  her  candle-lit 
room  in  the  dingy,  crowded  tenement  was  peopled  with 
the  world's  greatest,  real  and  ideal;  moving  in  scenes 
which  Carminella  could  not  but  think  must  be  wholly 
ideal,  so  completely  they  satisfied  her  stirred  and  broad 
ening  imagination.  While  Eleanor  was  giving  Carmi 
nella  glimpses  of  what  to  the  child  of  the  tenements 
was  almost  a  dream-life,  Carminella  in  turn  showed  the 
woman  to  whom  until  now  every  refinement  of  luxury 
had  been  accepted  as  a  matter  of  course,  realities  which 
were  to  her  as  new  and  startling  phases  of  life  as  any 
thing  she  had  revealed  or  suggested  to  Carminella  had 
been  to  the  child. 

Eleanor  had  assumed  and  performed  her  task  as  a 
teacher  in  the  charity  school  for  some  months  before 
she  saw  the  inside  of  the  homes  from  which  her  pupils 
came.  One  six-year-old  Jewish  child,  a  pinched  and 
withered  little  girl,  had  been  in  her  school  several 
weeks.  Eleanor  had  observed  and  wondered  that  under 
the  influences  of  fresh  air  and  sunlight,  of  freedom  from 
care  and  toil,  of  friendly  treatment,  of  the  laughter 
and  frolic  of  the  games  she  constantly  provided  for  the 
children,  the  worn  look  of  an  aged  toiler  had  slipped 
from  the  child's  face,  and  been  replaced  by  a  look 
of  baby  joy  and  happiness.  But  for  several  days  this 
child  had  been  absent  from  the  school.  Instead  of 
making  inquiries  through  an  inspector  employed  for 
that  purpose,  Eleanor  decided  to  go  and  see  for  herself 
what  the  home  lives  were  which  produced  the  start- 


58  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

ling  effects  she  saw  in  her  pupils  and  sought  to  ef 
face.  In  leaving  her  schoolroom  one  evening,  the  next 
day  being  a  school  holiday,  she  arranged  with  Carmi- 
nella  to  meet  her  there  in  the  morning,  when  Carmi- 
nella  should  guide  her  to  the  home  of  the  absent  little 
Jewess.  It  was  Eleanor's  custom  to  drive  as  far  down 
Broadway  as  Leonard  Street,  and  leave  her  carriage 
at  the  side  of  the  big  white  marble  insurance  building, 
to  which  place  the  carriage  would  return  for  her  in  the 
evening.  On  this  morning,  as  there  were  to  be  no 
classes,  she  ordered  the  coachman  to  wait  for  her,  and 
she  walked  as  usual  across  the  few  blocks  from  Broad 
way  where  her  quietly  appointed  equipage  would  be 
passed  by  endless  throngs  of  people  unremarked,  into 
that  other  world  where  her  liveried  coachman  and  foot 
man  would  have  been  assaulted  on  sight. 

Carminella  was  waiting  for  her  at  the  school,  and 
they  set  out  at  once  for  the  home  of  Lena,  the  absent 
one. 

"It  is  in  our  block,"  said  Carminella,  "but  it  is  on 
the  Baxter  Street  side.  It  is  a  back  tenement  almost  in 
a  line  with  ours." 

Perhaps  with  an  unconscious  intention  to  delay  the 
revelation  which  she  felt  her  companion  did  not  fore 
see,  and  partly  with  a  child's  delight  in  showing  off 
what  to  her  were  the  attractions  of  her  own  side  of  the 
block,  its  brightness  and  gayety,  Carminella  led  Eleanor 
up  Park  Street  and  turned  into  Mulberry  Bend  toward 
Bayard  Street.  That  stretch  of  the  Bend  is  one  of  the 
two  places  in  New  York  City  so  affected  by  the  adjacent 
conditions  of  living  that  the  police  there  openly  permit 
during  certain  hours  of  the  day  violations  of  the  law 
concerning  street  obstructions.  From  seven  until  ten 
in  the  morning  market  stalls  and  booths  are  allowed  to 


Eleanor's  Glimpse  of  Tenement  Hades.  59 

obstruct  the  sidewalk.  The  space  in  the  houses,  even 
to  the  ground  floors  and  the  cellars,  is  so  urgently  de 
manded  as  living  and  work  room  that  without  this 
street  market  the  swarming  inhabitants  would  have  no 
place  to  conduct  their  daily  household  trade. 

Eleanor  and  Carminella  moved  slowly  along  the 
Bend,  for  the  obstructions  were  too  numerous  and  the 
crowds  too  dense  to  permit  of  more  than  a  slow  work 
ing  forward.  It  was  a  bright,  early  spring  day,  and  it 
seemed  to  Eleanor  as  if  every  man,  woman,  and  child 
must  have  left  the  old  rookeries  on  either  side  of  the 
street  to  enjoy  the  sun  and  the  gay  companionship  of 
the  market-place.  The  gossip  of  the  women,  the 
strange  cries  of  the  vendors,  the  shouts  of  the  children 
were  all  animated,  light-hearted;  the  dress,  even  the 
rags  of  the  poorest,  were  bright-colored,  and  the  mar 
vellous  things  they  sold  lent  attractiveness  to  the  scene ; 
the  glinting  bronze  of  the  open  kegs  of  humble  her 
rings,  the  scarlet  of  ropes  of  peppers,  the  green  of  bar 
rels  of  olives;  the  gleaming  white  and  purple  of  onions; 
the  silver  shining  fresh  fish  heaped  high  in  wagon- 
loads  ;  the  cords  of  high-stacked  monster  loaves  of  bread 
in  every  shade  of  brown;  the  almost  startling  degree 
and  variety  of  color  in  the  open  booths  where  women's 
shawls,  children's  stockings,  and  men's  neckerchiefs 
were  displayed  and  offered  for  sale  by  women  who 
laughed  as  they  bantered  their  neighbors — rubber- 
booted  men  from  the  fish-market  docks  counting  out 
eels  from  barrels,  or  a  gardener  from  Long  Island 
with  bushels  of  dull-tinted  winter  vegetables,  or  a 
fruit  vendor  with  a  load  of  his  red  and  gold  and  purple 
commodities,  gathered  from  across  oceans  and  conti 
nents. 

Many  of  the  women   and  some  of  the  men  stopped 


60  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

their  barter  and  banter  to  good-naturedly  hail  Carmi- 
nella  as  she  passed,  and  ask  her  in  their  own  language 
if  the  Signorina  with  her  was  the  teacher  from  the  mis 
sion,  and  would  she  not  like  to  replenish  her  wardrobe 
or  her  cupboard  from  their  wares.  Before  they  had 
walked  ten  yards  Eleanor  was  conscious  that  she  was 
the  object  of  polite  attention.  Once  a  fish  vendor  left 
his  wagon  to  light  his  pipe  with  a  coal  from  the  brazier 
on  which  some  dish  was  cooking  in  front  of  an  area-way 
bread-stall.  As  he  stood,  big,  square-shouldered,  and 
seemingly  immovable,  holding  with  his  fingers  a  live 
coal  to  his  pipe,  he  was  so  engrossed  with  his  occupa 
tion,  and  perhaps  with  the  pretty  eyes  of  the  bread  ven 
dor,  that  he  did  not  hear  the  first  shout  for  him  to  clear 
the  way  for  Carminella  and  the  lady.  Then  forty  peo 
ple,  men,  women,  and  children,  shouted  at  him,  and  some 
of  the  objurgations  must  have  been  very  emphatic,  for 
he  jumped,  startled,  to  the  curb,  and  thej-e,  as  they 
passed  he  stood  smiling  apologetically,  lifting  his  soft 
woollen  cap  from  his  curling  black  hair  and  bowing  with 
an  accompanying  backward  sweep  of  one  rubber-booted 
leg. 

In  the  course  of  human  events,  as  they  are  directed 
and  advanced  by  municipal  energy,  Mulberry  Bend  is 
to  be  converted  into  a  park.  For  the  sunlight  and  air 
so  introduced  into  that  neighborhood  we  shall  all  feel 
appropriately  proud  of  our  share  in  the  achievement, 
yet  I  cannot  but  regret  that  even  with  all  the  delibera 
tion  our  rulers  may  exercise  in  this  matter,  the  trans 
formation  of  the  Bend  into  the  park  will  have  taken 
place  before  any  American  painter  shall  have  found 
time  from  working  up  his  "  Naples  sketches"  and  elab 
orating  his  "  scenes  from  Cairo  streets"  into  ambitious 
canvases,  to  step  over  into  the  Bend  and  preserve  its 


SWEATERS'     FREIGHT. 
"Hurried  along,  not  speaking  to  those  they  passed."— Page  61. 


Eleanor's  Glimpse  of  Tenement  Hades.  61 

distinctive  color  and  action  for  those  of  us  who  care. 
He  might  even  conceal  his  indiscretion  by  labelling  his 
picture  "Street  Scene  in  an  Italian  Town,"  and  sell  it, 
i'  faith! 

As  they  turned  down  Bayard  Street,  and  then  into 
Baxter,  Eleanor  shivered  as  one  who  steps  from  sun 
light  into  the  silent,  solemn  shade  of  a  vault.  Every 
condition  of  life  which  could  affect  mind  or  body  was 
reversed.  The  people,  from  the  youngest  to  the  oldest, 
were  speechless  and  grave  and  hopeless-looking.  Men 
staggered  past,  their  bodies  bent  almost  double  under 
what  seemed  impossible  loads  of  clothing  they  were 
carrying  to  and  from  the  sweaters'  and  the  workshop- 
homes;  women  carrying  similar  bundles  on  their  heads, 
or  perhaps  a  bundle  of  wood  from  some  builder's  waste, 
hurried  along,  not  speaking  to  those  they  passed ;  none  of 
the  children  seen  was  much  more  than  a  baby  in  years, 
and  they  were  silent  too,  and  had  no  games:  they  were 
in  the  street  because  while  the  sweaters'  work  went  on 
there  was  no  room  for  them  in  their  homes.  In  the 
dress  of  none  was  any  bright  color  seen,  and  the  only 
sounds  were  the  occasional  cry  of  a  hurt  child,  the  snarl 
ing  of  the  low-browed  men  who  solicited  trade  for  the 
clothing  stores,  quarrelling  for  the  possession  of  a  chance 
victim  ;  and  always,  as  the  grinding  ocean  surf  mutters 
an  accompaniment  to  all  other  shore  sounds — always, 
always,  always! — was  heard  the  whirring  monotone  of 
the  sewing-machine. 

Carminella,  who  was  looking  for  a  number,  stopped 
before  the  entrance  to  a  low,  dark,  tunnel-like  passage 
way,  by  the  side  of  an  equally  low,  dark  and  forbidding 
drinking-saloon. 

"  It  is  the  back  tenement  of  this  number,"  said  Car 
minella,  and  as  she  saw  a  slight,  instinctive  shrinking 


62  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

in  her  companion  she  took  her  hand.  They  walked 
through  the  long  entrance,  which  was  damp  with  the 
chill  dampness  which  even  midsummer  heat  never 
wholly  dispels.  They  came  out  into  a  small,  narrow 
court  roughly  paved  with  stone  and  bricks  and  so  over 
shadowed  by  tall  buildings  it  was  only  a  little  less  dark 
than  the  passage-way.  An  Italian  had  just  brought  into 
the  court  an  enormous  sack  of  waste  paper,  which  his 
wife  and  three  children  were  aiding  him  to  assort. 

"There  are  few  of  my  people  on  this  side  of  the 
block,"  said  Carminella,  as  if  she  were  sorry  they  had 
happened  upon  this  group.  "These  have  just  come 
from  Italy,"  she  added,  with  a  quick  noting  of  their 
clothes,  "  and  they  will  be  on  our  side  of  the  block  as 
soon  as  some  one  dies  there  and  makes  room."  Eleanor 
was  looking  at  what  seemed  to  be  a  low  bank  of  refuse 
lying  against  the  south  wall  of  the  court. 

"  Cannot  we  make  some  one  at  least  take  that  away?" 
she  said  to  Carminella.  The  child  spoke  to  the  man  in 
Italian.  The  man  grinned,  and  made  a  reply.  Then 
Carminella  said,  "  It  is  snow,  Miss  Helen.  It  must  stay 
till  it  is  melted.  It  takes  a  long  time  to  warm  these 
courts,  and  then  to  cool  them."  Carminella  asked  the 
woman  if  she  knew  in  what  rooms  Lena's  family  lived: 
no,  she  did  not  know,  she  had  only  been  there  three 
weeks,  and  knew  the  name  of  no  one  in  the  tenement. 
Carminella  stepped  toward  the  open  stairway,  but 
Eleanor  did  not  follow  at  once.  She  looked  affrighted, 
and  as  Carminella  returned  to  her,  she  heard  her  whis 
per:  "God  in  heaven!  Can  nothing  be  done  for  such 
as  these?"  And  then  in  a  tenser  whisper,  "  Inasmuch 
as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these — 
Carminella  interrupted  her  by  laying  a  hand  softly  on 
her  arm.  "Wait,"  the  child  whispered,  "wait  till  you 


Eleanor's  Glimpse  of  Tenement  Hades.  63 

have  seen  the  others.  My  people  can  smile.  Did  you 
not  see  these  smile?  The  others  never  smile.  They 
cannot." 

This  was  the  first  actual  glimpse  Eleanor  had  ever 
caught  of  the  picture  which  society,  ever  weaving 
pleasing  harmonies  in  bright  colors  in  the  light,  weaves 
in  the  dark  on  the  reverse  side  of  the  social  tapestry : 
but  as  yet  merely  the  edge  of  the  fabric  had  been  turned 
for  her  inspection.  Gathering  herself  with  a  start  she 
followed  Carminella  into  the  entrance  and  up  the  stair 
way  of  the  rear  tenement.  The  effluvia  from  the  reek 
ing  wooden  stairs,  the  odor  of  cooking  cabbage  which 
came  in  clouds  of  steam  from  some  of  the  open  doors, 
the  sense  of  what  she  had  seen,  the  dawning  suspicion 
of  what  she  was  to  see,  overcame  her  for  a  moment  at 
the  first  landing.  She  clutched  Carminella  in  the  dark 
and  gasped  as  though  she  were  stifled.  "  It  is  silly,  but 
I  cannot  go  on  now.  How  much  further?" 

They  found  their  way  at  last;  and  by  a  process  of  re 
jection,  going  one  flight  further  when  every  tenant  on 
a  floor  had  professed  ignorance  of  Lena. 

At  the  rear  of  the  fourth  landing  an  open  door  led 
into  a  small  room  with  two  windows  looking  on  a  nar 
row  court,  little  more  than  a  passageway,  facing  some 
wooden  sheds  used  to  stable  pedlers'  horses.  In 
this  room,  as  in  nearly  every  one  they  had  passed, 
people  were  at  work  making  clothing.  Here  there 
were  four  men,  a  woman,  a  girl  of  probably  sixteen 
years  of  age,  a  boy  younger  than  she,  and  two  younger 
girls.  The  youngest  of  the  girls  was  seated  on  the 
floor  with  disordered  heaps  of  clothing  all  about  her, 
pulling  threads  from  finished  garments  the  other  work 
ers  tossed  to  her.  Three  men  were  running  sewing- 
machines;  the  others  were  doing  hand-sewing,  or  press- 


64  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

ing,  and  the  arms  of  all  were  black  to  the  elbow  from 
the  dye  of  the  coarse,  cheap  stiiff  they  worked  on.  As 
Eleanor  and  her  companion  stopped  at  the  open  door 
all  of  the  toilers  looked  up  for  one  hasty  glance,  but 
without  an  instant's  pause  in  their  labor,  all  but  the 
youngest  child.  It  was  Lena.  She  gave  a  little  cry  of 
recognition,  and  laid  down  her  work  as  if  to  rise,  but 
a  scowl  from  one  of  the  men,  her  father,  caused  her  to 
continue  her  endless  task.  Lena  could  speak  a  little 
English,  the  two  hundred  words  or  so,  of  English,  such 
as  it  is,  which  is  the  common  language  of  all  the  chil 
dren  of  the  tenements,  whatever  may  be  the  native 
tongue  of  their  parents.  Carminella  knew  this  lan 
guage  and  also  knew  a  few  words  of  the  Hebrew  jargon 
which  was  Lena's  vernacular,  and  which  she  mixed  with 
her  street  vocabulary.  As  Carminella  stepped  into  the 
one  little  unoccupied  space  just  inside  the  door,  Eleanor 
leaned  against  the  door  frame,  glad  of  that  partial  rest, 
for  she  was  faint.  Both  the  windows  were  closed,  and 
on  a  little  coal  stove  against  the  sides  of  which  were 
propped  a  number  of  pressing  irons,  was  a  steaming 
kettle  of  cabbage.  The  men  at  work  each  wore  above 
his  trousers  only  a  widely-gaping,  sleeveless,  cotton 
undershirt;  the  woman  and  the  children,  including  the 
sixteen-year-old  girl,  were  clothed  above  the  waist  in 
much  the  same  fashion  as  the  men.  After  the  first 
short,  suspicious  scrutiny,  none  in  the  room  except 
Lena  showed  any  consciousness  of  the  presence  of  the 
visitors.  She,  continuing  her  work  with  one  hand, 
made  an  effort  with  the  other  to  catch  together  at  the 
throat  the  one  garment  over  her  shoulders,  and  she 
looked  up  at  Carminella  as  if  aware  of  the  object  of  the 
visit,  and  ready  to  reply  when  she  should  be  questioned. 
And  when  Carminella  did  question  her,  Lena  explained 


THE    STRICKEN     SLAVE. 
'Staring  at  her  with  irrational  eyes."— Page  65. 


Eleanor's  Glimpse  of  Tenement  Hades.  65 

in  language  which  was  nearly  as  incomprehensible  to 
Eleanor  as  it  was  to  Lena's  work-fellows,  although  they 
considered  it  English.  She  had  been  kept  from  school 
by  her  father  and  mother  to  do  the  work  an  eight-year- 
old  sister  had  been  doing  until  she  was  taken  sick. 
When  she  was  well  Lena  would  return  to  school. 

Lena  did  not  explain  that  her  father  wanted  her  to 
stay  in  school  until  she  could  speak  and  read  and  write 
English  so  that  she  could  communicate  with  the  Chris 
tians  who  gave  out  work,  and  thus,  perhaps,  avert  the 
calamity  of  idleness  when  the  family  could  get  no 
work  from  its  own  people. 

Carminella  translated  what  Lena  said  for  Eleanor, 
who,  when  she  heard  of  the  sick  eight-year-old,  tried  to 
peer  into  a  dark  inner  room  adjoining.  "  Ask  her  if  her 
sister  is  in  there  or  at  the  hospital,  and  what  she  is  sick 
with,"  she  said  to  Carminella.  Lena  explained  again: 
her  sister  was  sick  of  a  fever;  she  did  not  know  what 
fever.  A  woman  in  the  tenement,  whose  husband  was 
a  rag-picker,  had  said  she  would  tell  him  to  stop  where 
the  doctors  were  and  tell  them  of  the  sickness. 

Lena's  story  was  interrupted  by  a  startled  cry  from 
Eleanor,  who  had  seen  in  a  corner  of  the  room  a  stricken, 
fevered  child's  face  rise  slowly,  staring  at  her  with  ir 
rational  eyes  across  a  wall  of  unfinished  work,  built 
above  a  pile  of  finished  clothing  which  made  the  child's 
sick-bed. 

"  It  is  the  sick  one,"  said  Lena. 

"Has  she  no  bed?"  exclaimed  Eleanor.  "Not  even 
a  cot  in  the  other  room?" 

"  No,  the  boarders" — Lena  indicated  the  three  men 
working  by  her  father's  side — "sleep  in  that  room." 
The  family,  seven,  all  slept  in  the  room  in  which  they 
were  working. 


66  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

"  Has  the  child  no  care,  no  nursing,  no  delicacies?" 
Eleanor  asked. 

Carminella  could  not  make  all  of  this  understood  by 
Lena.  She  said  at  last,  however,  that  her,  Lena's 
school-dress,  had  been  pawned  that  morning,  and  with 
the  money  her  father  bought  a  quarter  of  a  chicken  in 
Hester  Street,  and  it  was  now  cooking  in  the  pot  with 
the  cabbage.  The  others  would  have  no  chicken,  they 
would  have  cabbage  and  black  bread  for  dinner. 

"  Is  it  all  you  want  to  know?"  whispered  Carminella 
to  Eleanor. 

"  No,"  said  Eleanor,  with  tightly  drawn  lips,  "  I  want 
to  know  all  I  can.  I  thought  I  knew  something  of  this 
life;  I  know  nothing.  Ask  her — ask  her  why,  because 
her  sister  could  not  work,  she  could  not  go  to  school." 

The  sewing-machines  clicked  and  whirred,  the 
needles  of  the  hand-sewers  flashed  in  and  out  with  the 
steady  regularity  of  machinery,  and  all  the  toilers  bent 
steadily,  sombrely  over  their  tasks  as  Lena,  not  neglect 
ing  her  own  work,  however,  again  explained. 

It  was  pitiful  that  she  could  explain,  not  so  little,  but 
so  much  as  she  did.  This  child — who  in  another  condi 
tion  of  society  would  be  treated  as  only  emerging  from 
babyhood,  as  just  maturing  at  best  into  a  mental  ca 
pacity  to  be  safely  vexed  with  the  mysteries  of  A,  B, 
and  C,  with  the  sums  of  one  and  one,  and  two  and  two — 
told  with  a  surprisingly  flexible  use  of  her  frugal  vocab 
ulary  (yet  a  vocabulary  born  of  the  necessity  of  under 
standing  such  matters,  if  nothing  else,  and  God  knows 
how  seldom  the  understanding  of  anything  else  comes 
into  their  lives!),  explained,  I  say,  this  six-year-old 
sweaters'  slave,  as  her  bare,  thin,  dye-blackened  arms 
moved  with  sharp  activity  which  never  ceased  from 
daylight  until  far  into  the  night,  when  nature  dragged 


Eleanor's  Glimpse  of  Tenement  Hades.  67 

them,  listless,  to  her  side  and  her  head  sank  in  restless 
sleep  on  a  pillow  of  her  own  work,  while  her  elders 
yet  toiled  on — that,  when  they  all  worked,  the  family 
earned  six  dollars  a  week!  Not  every  week:  some 
times  more,  much  more  than  that.  But  sometimes, 
also,  the  cutters  who  prepared  their  work  for  them  in 
the  big  shops  were  out  on  strike,  and  they  earned  noth 
ing;  sometimes  trade  was  dull,  and  they  earned  less 
than  six  dollars  a  week:  sometimes,  too,  when  ships 
brought  to  the  city  many  loads  of  their  people  who  had 
escaped  from  the  other  country,  wages  went  down,  as 
now,  when  for  finishing  "  pants"  they  were  paid  but 
five  cents  a  pair;  for  " knee-pants"  forty-two  cents  a 
dozen  ;  for  covering  wooden  buttons,  the  children's  task 
when  other  work  was  light,  four  cents  a  gross.  In  good 
times  and  bad  their  wages  came  to  six  dollars  a  week  at 
the  end  of  the  year,  so  she  could  not  go  to  school  when 
the  fever  took  away  one  of  the  family  from  the  work. 
When  her  sister  was  well  she  would  be  back  in  school, 
and  then  she  would  only  have  to  work  from  daylight 
until  school-time,  and  after  school  hours  until  dark. 

"  But  it  will  be  better  than  this,  something  must 
make  it  better  than  this,"  interrupted  Eleanor,  with  a 
sobbing  break  in  her  voice. 

When  Lena  was  made  to  understand  the  question  she 
spoke  to  her  father  and  translated  his  reply,  given  som 
brely  as  he  worked,  "  Nothing  would  ever  be  better. 
The  wages  always  went  down.  The  rent  never  did." 

"Is  there  nothing  to  hope  for  then?"  exclaimed 
Eleanor.  Carminella  tried,  but  tried  in  vain,  to  render 
this  question  to  the  little  interpreter.  Lena  shook  her 
head.  She  could  not  understand.  The  word  hope 
was  as  foreign  to  her  vocabulary  as  the  thing  it  meant 
was  to  their  lives. 


68  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

Eleanor  felt  herself  growing  faint  again,  the  air  of 
the  hot,  close  room  was  lifeless:  the  odors  from  the  per 
spiring,  unclean  bodies  of  the  workers,  the  coarse  fumes 
from  the  boiling  cabbage,  the  steam  arising  from  the 
dampened  shoddy  under  the  hot  iron  of  the  presser,  the 
indescribable  scent  from  the  fever-scorched,  uncared-for 
patient,  and  the  utter  misery  of  it  all  made  her  weak 
and  dizzy.  She  had  just  made  a  faint  motion  for  Car- 
minella  to  come  away  with  her,  when  a  health  officer, 
of  whose  approach  her  ringing  ears  had  taken  no  note, 
stood  by  her  side  at  the  door.  He  recognized  her  as  a 
charity  worker  in  the  district  in  which  his  paid  services 
were  employed,  and  raised  his  hat  respectfully  as  he 
said :  "  A  case,  supposed  to  be  fever,  has  been  reported 
from  this  apartment.  Have  you  been  investigating  it?" 

"  I  only  learned  of  it  by  accident,"  Eleanor  replied. 

He  noted  her  weak  voice  and  swooning  look,  and 
promptly  strode  over  the  strewn  confusion  of  garments 
to  the  windows  and  threw  both  of  them  open.  The 
instant  he  entered  the  room  the  boy,  probably  ten 
years  of  age,  and  a  girl  a  year  his  senior,  cried,  parrot- 
like,  "Fourteen!" 

"  They  are  telling  their  age ;  they  think  he  is  a  truant 
officer,"  Carminella  whispered  in  explanation  to  Elea 
nor.  "  That  is  what  they  are  all  taught  to  say,  so  they 
will  not  be  sent  to  school.  It  is  the  same  in  the  shops, 
when  the  factory  inspector  comes. " 

Eleanor  was  not  listening.  She  was  eagerly  watch 
ing  the  health  officer,  who  had  gone  to  the  sick  child, 
and  was  closely  examining  her.  Then  he  went  over  to 
the  door  and  said  to  Eleanor:  "Do  not  be  alarmed  at 
what  I  say,  but  my  duties  require  me  to  exercise  some 
authority  over  your  immediate  movements.  I  happen 
to  know  who  you  are,  and  that  Dr.  Bailey  is  your  fam- 


Eleanor's  Glimpse  of  Tenement  Hades.  69 

ily  physician.  I  was  in  his  office  as  a  student.  You 
have  been  exposed  here  to  typhus  fever.  You  must  go 
home  at  once  and  send  for  Dr.  Bailey." 

He  stopped  as  if  in  conjecture.  Eleanor  looked  as 
if  she  had  not  understood  a  word  he  had  spoken. 

"  How  will  you  reach  your  home?"  he  asked,  and 
added,  "you  would  expose  others  in  a  street  car." 

"  My  carriage  is  just  at  Broadway,"  she  answered. 

Again  he  paused,  as  if  determining  a  plan,  and  then 
said  rapidly :  "  I  will  go  and  bring  your  carriage  as  far 
as  Centre  Street.  You  will  reach  there  no  sooner  than 
I  do.  You  will  drive  then  to  your  stables,  not  to  your 
house.  I  will  telephone  to  Dr.  Bailey,  who  will  meet 
you  there." 

He  started  to  go,  but  turned  to  the  workers  and 
asked  sharply,  "Any  one  speak  English  here?" 

"  Me,"  Lena  replied.      No  one  else  even  looked  up. 

"  None  of  this  clothing  must  be  taken  out,  and  none 
of  you  must  leave  the  room  until  I  return.  You  under 
stand?" 

"Yes,"  said  Lena. 

Eleanor  reached  the  carriage,  nervous  and  distressed. 
The  health  officer  mistook  the  cause  of  her  agitation 
and  began  to  reassure  her  as  to  the  remoteness,  in  her 
case  at  least,  of  the  danger  from  contagion. 

"No,  no,  you  do  not  understand,"  she  cried  impetu 
ously.  "  I  do  not  fear  or  care  for  myself,  but  I  have 
exposed  this  child,  Carminella,  here.  It  is  I  who  am 
to  blame  if  anything  happens  to  her.  She  must  come 
with  me." 

The  officer  forbade  this.  Carminella  was  near  her 
own  home,  where  he  could  take  immediate  precautions 
for  her.  He  would  go  with  her  himself  to  her  home. 
For  her  to  go  with  Miss  Hazelhurst  would  be  only 


70  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

an  additional  possible  danger  to  whoever  attended 
them. 

"  Promise  me  then  that  Carminella  shall  have  every 
attention  from  you  Dr.  Bailey  will  give  me.  There 
must  be  no  question  of  expense,"  urged  Eleanor. 

"I  promise  you,"  he  said. 

Before  the  health  officer  had  completed  these 
promised  arrangements  for  Carminella's  safety,  Lena's 
father  had  secured  the  aid  of  a  tenant  from  another 
floor,  who  was  soon  staggering  toward  a  clothing  fac 
tory,  bent  beneath  the  mound  of  garments  which  had 
made  the  typhus-fever  patient's  bed;  each  garment 
to  be  offered  for  sale  over  some  counter  the  next  day; 
a  bargain,  verily,  for  a  death-warrant  would  be  in 
cluded  free  with  every  garment ! 


CHAPTER    VII. 

THE   CRIME    IN   THE   NIANTIC. 

I'VE  been  wanting  these  many  pages  to  get  away  from 
the  tenements,  and  I  feel  much  pride  and  satisfaction  in 
the  fact  that  now  we  are  going  on  a  visit  to  the  Niantic 
Building.  It  has  already  been  said,  I  think,  that  the 
Niantic  is  in  Exchange  Place  between  Broad  and  Wil 
liam  streets,  and  that  is  enough  for  those  who  know. 
That  locates  it  as  one  of  the  old-fashioned,  five-story, 
granite  office-buildings  where  commercial  aristocracy 
transacts  its  business  affairs  in  the  same  manner  as 
when  the  tenants  of  the  building  lived  on  Barclay 
Street,  or  Park  Place,  or  thereabouts,  and  took  drives  to 
the  homes  of  that  venturesome  colony  of  other  aristo 
crats,  who  had  located  out  in  the  country,  as  far  up-town 
as  Washington  Square. 

Only  one  modern  improvement  had  been  made  in  the 
Niantic  in  the  memory  of  man:  an  elevator,  the  small 
est  and  slowest  of  its  kind,  had  been  selected  after  years 
of  thought  and  consultation  between  the  owner,  the 
agent,  and  the  janitor,  Dan  Lyon. 

The  offices  in  the  Niantic  are  large,  none  of  your 
modern  cubby-holes  chiefly  occupied  by  steam  heaters 
and  various  electrical  contrivances.  In  these  big  offices 
there  are  open  grates  for  fires,  and  when  the  head  of  an 
office  wants  any  one  in  his  employ  he  rings  a  hand-bell, 
which  sooner  or  later  brings  a  "junior  clerk,"  who 
summons  the  person  wanted.  The  business  transacted 


72  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

there  seems  principally  to  relate  to  "  The  Estate  of,"  for 
old-fashioned  Dutch  names  appear  on  nearly  all  the 
office  doors,  and  generally  under  the  name  is  the  le 
gend:  "The  Estate  of." 

There  is  one  suite  of  offices  occupied  by  the  Amer 
ican  agent  of  the  Anglo-African  Trading  Co.,  and  the 
secretary  of  the  American  Society  for  the  Deportation 
of  Escaped  Slaves  to  the  West  Coast  of  Africa.  The 
agent  and  the  secretary  are  the  same  man,  but  his  name 
does  not  appear.  Perhaps  because  he  is  modest,  but 
more  likely  because  his  predecessor  did  not  have  his 
name  up.  The  reason  for  doing  most  things  as  they  are 
done  in  the  Niantic  is  that  they  were  done  so  in  the 
beginning. 

There  is  a  lawyer,  and  a  very  great  one,  in  the  Ni 
antic  who,  influenced  by  the  atmosphere  of  the  build 
ing,  declines  to  use  the  typewriter,  and  all  his  papers 
are  copied  by  hand  and  by  clerks  who  write  with  quill 
pens.  Some  other  lawyers  say  that  his  handwriting  and 
quill-pen  scheme  retains  the  Niantic  lawyer  a  very  de 
sirable  line  of  clients;  so  there  may  be  something  prac 
tical,  after  all,  in  being  old-fashioned. 

Once  the  agent  of  the  building,  a  philistine  with  an 
office  on  Broadway,  suggested  to  Dan  that  he  and  the 
elevator  boy  should  wear  uniforms  as  janitors  and  ele 
vator  conductors  in  all  big  buildings  did,  and  Dan 
promptly  threatened  to  resign  his  place.  The  owner 
heard  of  it,  and  sharply  told  the  agent  that  Dan  was 
not  to  be  coerced  in  the  matter  of  uniform  or  anything 
else. 

"And  I  guess  he  was  right,"  said  the  agent,  good-na 
turedly,  telling  Dan  about  it  afterward,  "  for  I  believe 
if  you  left  us  every  tenant  in  the  building  would  move 
out  and  we  would  have  to  put  up  a  new  building,  for 


MARK     WATERS. 
His  brow  habitually  wore  a  frown.'1— Page  73. 


The  Crime  in  the  Niantic.  73 

no  one  else  would  come  in  here  and  pay  the  rent  these 
clear  old  fossils  do." 

Dan  was  dumb  with  amazement  at  this  heinous  libel 
on  the  Niantic  tenants.  Not  till  the  agent  had  left  did 
he  make  vocal  his  indignation,  and  then  he  said  to 
Dick,  the  elevator  conductor:  "The  Niantic  has  the 
finest  lot  of  gentlemen  in  the  city — barring  one — and 
these  patent,  new,  cubby-hole,  up-in-the-sky  buildings 
would  be  glad  to  have  them.  How  would  I  look  in 
buttons  and  gold  lace;  me,  an  American-born  citizen? 
I'd  be  a  disgrace  to  the  Niantic." 

Dick  knew  who  Dan  referred  to  when  he  "  barred  one" 
from  his  classification  of  the  Niantic  tenants  as  "  the 
finest  gentlemen  in  the  city."  On  the  fourth  floor  were 
two  offices  occupied  by  the  latest  tenant  in  the  build 
ing,  the  only  one  to  move  in,  in  fact,  during  the  past 
ten  years.  On  one  of  the  doors  of  these  fourth-floor 
offices  was  a  sign  which  read  "  Philip  Ormsbee  Peyton," 
and  in  smaller  letters  the  words  "  Estate  of,"  and  lower 
down,  at  the  bottom  of  the  ground-glass  panel,  "  Mark 
Waters."  Waters  was  the  only  man  in  the  building 
with  whom  Dan  was  not  on  friendly  terms.  The  new 
tenant,  who  had  been  in  the  building  two  years,  was  a 
man  about  forty-five  years  of  age,  rather  imposing  in 
stature,  with  a  fairly  good  face  so  long  as  you  were  not 
conscious  of  the  coarse  lips  nearly  concealed  by  a  heavy, 
reddish  moustache.  His  brow  habitually  wore  a  frown, 
which  you  might  take  to  mean  sullenness  and  suspicion, 
or  studiousness  and  concentration  of  mind,  as. you  dis 
liked  or  liked  him.  Waters  had  a  disagreeable  scene 
with  Dan  when  he  first  moved  in,  because  Dan  had 
entered  Waters'  private  office,  when  he  wanted  to  speak 
to  him  on  business.  Waters  had  sworn  at  him  and 
threatened  to  have  him  discharged  for  daring  to  enter 

7 


74  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

his  office  unasked,  although  the  door  was  open  and 
Dan  had  business,  but  Dan's  surprise  and  total  freedom 
from  alarm  in  receiving  the  threat  had  caused  Waters 
to  alter  his  manner.  When  the  new  tenant  learned,  as 
he  soon  did  learn,  that  Dan  was  treated  by  the  other 
tenants  as  an  old  and  confidential  personal  employee, 
he  endeavored  to  efface  the  first  bad  impression  he  had 
made.  But  Dan  was  proud,  and  was  not  without  sus 
picions.  He  returned  the  modest  check  Waters  gave 
him  the  first  Christmas  he  was  there,  and  thereafter 
spoke  to  him  only  when  obliged  by  his  own  duties  as 
janitor. 

Late  one  warm  spring  afternoon — it  was  the  first  of 
May,  indeed,  and  on  the  first  of  any  month  many  people 
go  to  the  Niantic  Building  to  pay  rents  to  the  various 
"  Estates  of"  Mr.  Waters  remained  in  his  office  until 
after  the  occupants  of  all  the  others  had  departed ;  had 
joined,  as  they  went  their  various  ways,  the  rivulets 
running  toward  the  streams  rushing  toward  the  tor 
rents  pouring  into  the  ferries,  the  elevated,  and  surface 
cars,  and  the  out-of-town  steamers,  which  every  day 
drain  the  lower  end  of  Manhattan  Island  of  its  sea  of 
humanity  the  reservoir-like  office  buildings  gather  and 
store  and  discharge  every  day.  And  Lord!  what  is  the 
use  of  it  all? 

Waters  was  in  his  private  office,  which,  like  his  clerk's, 
had  a  door  opening  into  the  hall,  and  both  doors  as 
well  as  the  windows  were  open,  for  the  heat  of  the  day 
had  been  excessive  and  was  still  radiating  from  the 
mountains  of  steel  and  granite  near-by  and  keeping  the 
air  hot.  Waters  was  looking  at  some  papers  which  he 
had  taken  from  a  long,  folding  pocket-book,  open  on  the 
desk  before  him,  when  his  clerk  timidly  called  him. 

He  started  nervously,  closed  the  pocket-book  over  the 


The  Crime  in  the  Niantic.  75 

papers  and  turned  toward  the  door  leading  to  the  other 
room  where  his  clerk  stood. 

"There  are  some  letters  to  sign,"  the  clerk  said. 

Waters  rose  and  stood  pressing  a  thumb  on  the  pock 
et-book.  "And  I  suppose  you  want  to  go,"  he  said  to 
the  clerk  gruffly. 

"If  I  don't  catch  the  six  o'clock  train  I  can't  take 
one  which  stops  at  my  station  until  seven,"  the  clerk 
said  apologetically. 

"  Yes,  I've  heard  that  a  thousand  times  before.  Bring 
the  letters." 

The  clerk  took  a  step  toward  him,  when  Waters,  cast 
ing  a  glance  at  the  papers  open  on  the  desk,  walked 
hurriedly  toward  the  clerk,  and  said:  "I'll  sign  them 
at  your  desk." 

At  the  very  instant  he  left  his  office  a  Chinaman 
walked  into  it  from  the  hall,  through  the  open  door. 
He  looked  into  the  other  room,  saw  that  neither  man 
there  had  noticed  him,  stepped  over  to  the  desk,  picked 
up  the  pocket-book,  and  noiselessly  left  the  office,  and 
as  noiselessly,  but  with  rapid  steps,  walked  down  the 
stairs  and  out  into  the  street.  There  he  reduced  his 
gait  to  the  usual  lazy  swing  of  his  people,  walked  to  the 
corner  of  William  Street,  when  he  turned  and  looked 
back.  There  was  no  one  in  that  early-deserted  block, 
and  he  turned  and  walked  again  to  the  Niantic  Build 
ing.  He  went  to  the  elevator  entrance  and  rang  for 
that  sedate  conveyance.  When  it  reached  the  ground- 
floor  Tom  Lyon  stepped  out,  said  good-by  to  Dick  and 
hurried  away.  Then  Dick  said  to  the  Chinaman: 
"  Everybody  gone,  John.  Elevator  no  run." 

The  Chinaman  turned  as  if  to  go,  but  said :  "  Want  to 
pay  lent  to  Mista  Walta.  Him  gone?" 

"  Oh  no,  I  guess  not     Get  aboard  and  pay  your  rent. " 


76  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

The  elevator  had  just  started  when  a  hoarse  cry  was 
heard  from  the  fourth  floor.  "Janitor!  Lyon !  Ele 
vator  boy!  Somebody,  quick!  I've  been  robbed.  Get 
an  officer  quick.  Somebody  who  left  the  building  this 
minute  has  robbed  me!" 

The  elevator  from  below,  and  Dan  Lyon  from  his 
little  office  on  the  half-floor  above,  reached  the  fourth 
floor  at  the  same  moment. 

"Who  has  left  this  building  within  five  minutes?" 
shouted  Waters. 

His  usually  deeply  flushed  face  was  pale  and  streaked, 
and  he  was  evidently  trying  to  control  a  tremendous 
agitation. 

Dan  looked  at  Waters,  then  at  Dick,  seeking  some 
explanation.  The  Chinaman,  apparently  oblivious  of 
any  excitement,  smiled  and  bowed  and  said,  "Boss  send 
me  with  lent,  Mista  Walta."  Waters  did  not  notice 
him:  "Can't  you  speak!"  he  roared  at  the  others. 
"  Who  just  left  the  building?" 

"  Who?"  repeated  Dan,  looking  to  the  elevator  boy. 

"  Tom  ;  no  one  else." 

"  No  one  has  left  since  the  offices  closed,  but  my  son, 
Tom,"  Dan  then  said  to  Waters. 

"  He  robbed  my  office,  then ;  where  is  he?    Where " 

Waters  suddenly  stopped  and  stepped  back,  for  Dan 
advanced  toward  him  with  a  look  that  would  have 
cowed  a  braver  man  than  he. 

"  My  son  Thomas  robbed  no  one.  Don't  say  that 
again,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  was  low,  but  terrible 
with  rage. 

"I  took  Tom  up  to  Dan's  office.  He  spoke  to  his 
father  in  my  sight,  while  I  waited  for  him,  and  he 
went  down  with  me.  He  was  on  no  other  floor,"  put 
in  Dick  eagerly. 


The  Crime  in  the  Niantic.  77 

Waters*  manner  suddenly  changed.  "  I  was  excited," 
he  said.  "It's  been  a  hot  and  busy  day  and  I've  been 
annoyed.  I  missed  something  from  my  desk  and 
thought  it  had  been  stolen.  I'll  look  for  it  again. 
Here  you,"  he  exclaimed  to  the  innocently  smiling 
Chinaman,  "  where's  your  rent?  Take  it  to  my  clerk," 
and  Waters  went  to  his  office,  closing  the  doors  behind 
him.  "  That  janitor's  cub  stole  the  book  and  they  are 
trying  to  shield  him,"  he  muttered  excitedly,  when  he 
was  alone.  He  made  another  hopeless  search  of  his 
desk  and  the  whole  office  for  the  missing  book.  The 
clerk  had  receipted  for  the  rent  of  the  Chinatown  store, 
which  honest  Chung  had  brought  from  his  employer, 
and  Chung,  smiling  and  bowing,  left  the  office  and 
walked  out  of  the  building  in  a  careless,  lounging  man 
ner,  richer  by  how  much  he  knew  not,  for  he  had  not 
yet  examined  the  pocket-book  mere  chance  had  thrown 
in  his  way. 

Chung  was  not  a  professional  thief.  He  was  employed 
in  the  store  of  his  uncle  Fong,  a  merchant  of  Mott 
Street,  and  though  he  was  much  fonder  of  gambling 
and  smoking  opium  than  selling  lily-bulbs,  bad  tea,  and 
poor  china  for  ten  times  their  worth  to  white  sight 
seeing  customers,  he  had  never  been  in  open  conflict 
with  the  law.  He  entered  the  Niantic  Building  that 
afternoon  on  business;  to  pay  the  rent  his  uncle  owed 
the  estate  of  Philip  Ormsbee  Peyton,  as  was  his  custom 
on  the  first  of  every  month.  He  was  late,  the  elevator 
was  not  in  sight,  the  halls  were  deserted  and  quiet,  and 
prompted  in  part  by  his  belief  that  the  elevator  had 
ceased  running  for  the  day,  and  led  partly  by  the 
fascination  of  wandering  alone  through  the  silent  halls 
of  a  building  which,  to  his  mind,  was  the  repository  of 
boundless  wealth,  he  had  slowly,  noiselessly,  strolled 


78  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

up  the  stairs.  He  saw  no  one;  no  one  saw  him.  The 
elevator  was  waiting  at  the  landing  by  Dan's  office, 
where  Tom  had  gone  with  a  message  to  his  father  from 
Mr.  Dean.  Chung  reached  the  open  door  of  Mr.  Waters' 
private  office  just  as  Waters  stepped  into  the  clerk's 
room.  The  Chinaman's  alert  eye  caught  sight  of  the 
pocket-book.  He  knew  that  his  cloth  soled  shoes  would 
make  no  sound  on  the  carpeted  floor,  and  without  a 
moment's  hesitation  he  seized  the  opportunity  to  take 
what  he  hoped  would  provide  funds  wherewith  he  might 
turn  the  long  opposing  tide  of  fortune  at  the  gaming 
tables.  His  cunning  in  returning  as  he  did  prevented 
the  slightest  suspicion  against  him,  and  as  Waters  sat 
staring  at  his  desk  he  became  convinced  that  Tom  Lyon 
had  stolen  the  book.  Waters  was  strangely  agitated. 
The  unnoticed  clerk  made  a  dozen  futile  attempts  to 
attract  his  employer's  attention,  that  he  might  ask 
permission  to  depart,  and  wondered  at  the  evidence  of 
fear  as  much  as  rage  he  saw  on  Waters'  face.  He 
knew  his  employer's  habits  well  enough  to  know  that 
the  pocket-book  did  not  contain  much  money,  not  more 
than  a  hundred  dollars,  probably.  To  Waters  that 
would  be  a  small  loss;  for,  besides  the  estate  of  Pey 
ton.  Waters  was  the  manager  of  several  properties, 
richer  estates  and  trusts,  which  paid  well,  as  the  clerk 
knew.  Waters,  harsh  and  brutal  as  the  clerk  knew  him 
to  be,  was  not  a  penurious  man — except  in  the  matter 
of  salary,  sighed  the  clerk.  He  wondered  if  he  was 
to  be  kept  from  his  suburban  home  until  after  the 
seven-thirty  train  had  left,  and  incur  the  expense  of  a 
dinner  in  town.  He  coughed  apologetically  as  he 
thought  of  this,  and  Waters,  hearing  him,  exclaimed: 
"  I  thought  you  had  gone.  Go  home. " 


The  Crime  in  the  Niantic.  79 

The  clerk  picked  up  his  lunch  satchel  and  hurriedly 
departed. 

"  If  those  papers  fall  into  the  hands  of  that  damned 
janitor  who  hates  me,  I'm  done  for,"  groaned  Waters. 

He  made  a  sudden  resolve,  locked  his  office,  and 
hurried  down  the  stairs.  He  passed  Dan  at  the  street 
entrance  and  tried  to  appear  good-natured  as  he  nodded 
and  said:  "It's  been  a  hot,  busy  day,  Dan,  and  I  was 
tired  and  worried.  Don't  think  about  what  I  said." 

Dan  did  not  reply,  and  Waters  hurried  into  Broad 
Street,  where  he  found  a  hack  waiting  for  such  belated 
office-men  as  he,  and  glancing  over  his  shoulder  to  see 
that  Dan  was  not  watching,  he  whispered  to  the  driver 
as  he  entered  the  hack,  "  To  police  headquarters." 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

WAR,   ART,   AND  A   BREAKFAST. 

WHEN  Tom  left  his  father's  office  he  returned  at  once 
to  the  Tivoli  Theatre  to  keep  an  engagement  there  in 
which  he  was  much  interested.  He  was  to  submit  to 
a  newspaper  man  a  drawing  for  an  illustration  in  the 
Daily  Guardian.  This  chance,  which  had  been  one  of 
the  day-dreams  Tom  most  cherished,  had  come  about 
by  accident,  an  accident  which  did  much  to  influence 
Tom's  career.  The  night  before  there  had  been  a  cas 
ualty  on  the  Tivoli  stage  reported  in  brief  notes  in  most 
of  the  papers  in  traditional  language,  as  "  A  Scene  not 
Down  on  the  Bills. "  A  burlesque,  "  The  Forty  Thieves, " 
was  being  played  in  which  the  fair  Morgana  was  repre 
sented  by — but  I  shall  not  tell  you  her  name.  She  is 
known  in  the  Bowery  theatres,  where  she  is  yet  playing, 
as  Aline,  and  that  is  not  at  all  like  the  name  she  bore 
when  she  charmed  an  older  generation  in  Broadway 
theatres.  Aline  confessed  to  forty  years,  and  has  for 
a  decade,  and  I  am  as  certain  she  was  not  sixty  as  I  am 
that  she  still  looks  not  over  thirty.  As  Morgana  she  is 
as  fair  and  sprightly  and  smart  as  her  daughter,  who  is 
playing  the  same  line  of  characters  in  uptown  theatres 
without  half  mamma's  chic.  Anyway,  Morgana  breaks 
Bowery  hearts  with  the  same  ease  and  frequency  she  shat 
tered  the  harder  hearts  of  Broadway  a  score  of  years  ago. 

The  night  before  the  theft  in  the  Niantic  Building 
a  sailor-man,  pursuing  the  object  of  his  devotion  with 

80 


War,  Art,  and  a  Breakfast.  81 

Jack-ashore  impetuosity,  had  managed  to  elude  the 
stage-doorkeeper  of  the  Tivoli,  and  appeared  before 
the  amazed  Morgana  just  as  that  lady  was  posed  behind 
a  piece  of  scenery  which  was  to  be  run  back  to  disclose 
her  to  an  admiring  audience.  There  was  no  time  to 
protest,  no  time  to  explain.  Jack  threw  himself  down 
on  his  knees  before  his  fair  enslaver,  and  holding  in 
his  outstretched  hands  a  monster  bouquet  of  faded  roses 
wired  to  a  fat  bundle  of  sticks,  was  pouring  forth  an  im 
passioned  declaration  of  love  when  the  scenery  was  run 
back,  and  the  unexpected  picture  disclosed  to  a  hilarious 
ly  delighted  audience.  Jack  favored  the  audience  with 
a  profound  wink,  and  awaited  his  Morgana's  answer. 
There  was  a  sudden  explosion  of  curses  in  the  wing  where 
the  stage-manager  and  his  assistants  were,  and  their 
cries  of  despair  deepened  as  a  wilder  roar  of  laughter 
followed  a  sudden  hot  renewal  of  Jack 's  love  declaration. 

Tom  happened  to  be  standing  in  the  wing,  and  his 
wit  came  to  the  rescue.  There  was  much  opening  and 
closing  of  traps  in  the  piece,  and  Tom  knew  that  the 
mechanics  beneath  the  stage  were  alert  for  signals. 
Marking  that  Jack  knelt  directly  in  the  centre  of  a 
double-door  trap,  Tom  gave  the  signal  to  open  it. 
With  the  mysterious  suddenness  which  belongs  to  such 
disappearances  Jack  was  swallowed  out  of  sight  in  a 
black  hole,  the  doors  swung  back  into  place,  and  the 
incident  was  ended:  all  but  the  laughter  and  cheers, 
and  the  enthusiastic  demands  for  Jack's  reappearance. 

News  of  the  incident  reached  the  row  of  reporters' 
offices  opposite  police  headquarters,  on  Mulberry  Street, 
and  the  reporter  who  went  to  the  Tivoli  for  all  the 
others  was  Philip  Peyton,  of  the  Guardian. 

Tom  told  him  the  story  with  such  good  nature  and 
appreciation  of  its  value  that  the  newspaper  man  said 


82  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

in  parting,  "  This  is  worth  only  an  item  in  the  morning 
but  I  think  there  is  a  Sunday  special  story  in  it,  with 
more  incidents  of  the  same  character.  Do  you  think 
you  can  give  me  some  stuff  if  I  call  to-morrow?" 

Tom  said  he  thought  he  could  and  the  next  day,  soon 
after  noon,  Peyton  called  at  the  Tivoli.  Tom  had  made 
some  pen-and-ink  sketches  of  the  Jack-Morgana  inci 
dent  and  was  excitedly  wondering  how  he  could  bring 
about  an  opportunity  to  submit  them  to  Peyton.  The 
latter  made  everything  easy.  His  first  question  was, 
"  Have  you  been  to  lunch?" 

Tom  had  not. 

"Then  let's  go  over  to  Faylor's  and  have  something 
to  eat.  I  have  not  had  breakfast  yet,  and  besides  it  is 
more  comfortable  to  talk  over  a  table  with  something  on 
it  to  eat  and  drink." 

Tom  agreed.  He  had  never  been  at  Faylor's,  but  he 
knew  where  that  fine,  old-fashioned  restaurant  was,  as 
he  knew  every  place  of  note  of  every  kind  south  of 
Fourteenth  Street.  He  had  no  more  thought  of  it  as  a 
place  he  might  patronize  than  he  had  thought  of  ever 
entering  any  of  those  quiet,  old,  red-brick  homes  in  the 
lowei  end  of  Fifth  Avenue  and  on  North  Washington 
Square,  which,  to  his  mind,  instinctively  represented 
the  best  of  civilization  which  wealth  gives  to  the  edu 
cated.  Much  of  the  rough  finish  of  Mulberry  Bend  had 
been  smoothed  down  on  Tom  by  the  attrition  of  the 
Life  Class.  Not  all.  There  were  places  on  the  surface 
of  his  character  where  the  manner  and  morals  of  the 
Bend  had  cut  in  too  deep  to  be  polished  out  by  a  few 
years  of  casual  rubbing  against  less  rugged  planes. 
Something  happened  before  they  left  the  Bowery  which 
showed  this.  Tom  had  stopped  to  speak  to  a  messenger 
who  ran  after  him  from  the  theatre,  and  Peyton  strolled 


THE     PULLER-IN. 
•The  low-browed,  brutal-faced  pest."— Page  83. 


War,  Art,  and  a  Breakfast.  83 

slowly  along.  As  he  was  passing  a  cheap-clothing 
house,  its  sidewalk  solicitor,  one  of  those  whose  ener 
getic  efforts  on  behalf  of  trade  sometimes  lead  to  mur 
der,  the  low-browed,  brutal-faced  pest  known  as  the 
"puller-in,"  with  the  sole  purpose  to  annoy,  nagged  the 
newspaper  man  to  enter  the  store.  Peyton  paid  no 
attention  to  his  tormentor,  who  finally  placed  a  heav)7, 
dirty  hand  on  his  shoulder.  Just  as  Peyton  brushed  the 
dirty  hand  from  his  shoulder  Tom  came  up.  The 
puller-in  again  attempted  to  put  his  hand  on  Peyton, 
when,  with  a  lightning-like  suddenness  and  precision, 
Tom  struck  the  fellow  in  the  face  with  his  fist,  tripped 
him  with  his  heel,  throwing  him  heavily,  and  then 
kicked  him  in  the  jaw.  It  was  not  a  light  kick.  It 
was  a  heavy  one,  meant  to  stun,  and  it  did.  The  three 
movements  by  which  the  ugly  brute  had  been  laid  low 
and  senseless  did  not  seem  to  take  a  second  of  time,  and 
the  next  second  Tom  had  slipped  his  hand  in  Peyton's 
arm  and  was  walking  him  westward,  unmindful  of  the 
din  and  outcry  behind  him,  and  winking  at  a  policeman 
who  hurried  the  other  way.  Peyton  was  shaking  with 
excitement.  It  was  minutes  before  he  spoke. 

"Why  did  you  do  that?"  he  said.  He  was  surprised 
at  the  entirely  unagitated  manner  in  which  Tom  re 
plied:  "Why,  that  mug  was  looking  for  trouble.  He 
didn't  do  a  thing  to  a  man  except  kill  him  less  than  a 
year  ago  in  a  scrap  he  brought  on  by  doing  just  what 
he  did  to  you.  He  got  off  on  the  grounds  of  self- 
defence.  I've  just  been  crazy  to  get  a  crack  at  him 
ever  since.  If  you  had  struck  him,  the  gang  from  in 
side  the  store  we  heard  yelping  would  have  jumped 
you,  and  you'd  have  been  minus  your  watch,  scarf-pin, 
and  probably  an  eye  and  a  tooth  or  two,  in  a  minute. 
They  did  not  dare  to  jump  me,  because  they  knew  me, 


84  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

and  kr>ew  that  if  I'd  been  jumped  my  friends  would 
have  cleaned  out  the  shop.  That  puller-in  would  not 
have  tackled  you  it  he  had  seen  that  you  were  with  me. 
I  had  to  give  it  to  him  as  hard  as  I  did,  for  if  I'd  let 
him  up  he'd  have  probably  pulled  a  knife." 

Tom  said  all  this  in  an  indifferent  and  somewhat  feel- 
ingless  manner,  as  if  he  were  telling  a  more  than  twice- 
told  tale  of  the  killing  of  a  rattlesnake,  long  after  the 
adventure. 

"  But  why  did  you  run  all  that  risk  to  save  me  the 
annoyance  of  having  that  foul  pig  touch  me  again?" 
Peyton  asked. 

Tom  said  slowly  and  seriously:  "  Because  you  are  my 
friend  for  one  reason,  and  because  he  could  have  done 
you." 

"  Done  me?     I  don't  quite  understand,"  said  Peyton. 

"  Done  you;  I  mean  whipped  you,"  laughed  Tom. 

"  But  I  am  heavier  than  you,  and  possibly  as  good  a 
boxer,"  the  other  said,  examining  his  companion  criti 
cally. 

The  men  were  of  about  the  same  height,  an  inch, 
perhaps,  to  Tom's  advantage.  Peyton  was  sturdier  in 
build,  as  twenty-eight  is  apt  to  be  sturdier  than  twenty- 
two.  The  newspaper  man  was  dark  with  a  closely  shorn 
and  pointed  beard.  Tom  was  light  in  all  his  coloring, 
smooth-shaven  and  nervously  thin,  but  his  muscles  were 
all  trained  and  hard.  The  two  men  regarded  each  other 
for  some  time  in  half-amused  silence,  and  Tom  ran  the 
tips  of  his  fingers  knowingly  down  Peyton's  shoulders 
and  arms,  humming: 

"Study  the  ankle,  the  elbow,  the  knee; 
Pectoral  muscles  which  no  one  can  see. 
Shoulders  and  hip-bones  must  always  agree : 
A  la  mode  Kenyon  Cox. " 


War,  Art,  and  a  Breakfast.  #;> 

"What's  that?"  Peyton  asked,  laughing. 

"That's  one  of  our  Life-Class  songs.  You  are  well 
muscled,  Mr.  Peyton.  But  when  you  want  to  thrash  the 
kind  of  a  beast  that  puller-in  is,  you  do  it  with  your 
nerves." 

"Well,  then,  I  thank  you  for  your  expenditure  of 
nervous  force  on  my  behalf.  But  what  was  that  about 
a  Life  Class?"  said  Peyton,  in  a  manner  dismissing  the 
other  subject,  in  which  he  saw  he  could  not  interest 
Tom.  The  new  subject  interested  him  intensely,  and 
at  once.  He  told  his  new  friend  of  his  start  in  drawing 
at  the  public  school ;  of  the  years  in  which  he  advanced 
as  far  as  he  could  be  taken  in  Cooper  Institute ;  and  of 
his  last  three  years  in  the  League  Life  Class.  And  now, 
he  said,  his  teacher  there  had  advised  him  to  try  outside 
work,  beginning,  if  he  could  find  opportunity,  with 
pen-and-ink  drawings  for  the  newspapers. 

Philip  Peyton  observed  curiously  the  sudden  change 
in  his  companion.  When  he  had  been  talking  of  the 
incident  which  had  made  the  gently-bred  man  tremble 
with  excitement,  Tom  had  talked  glibly,  but  as  one 
almost  hardened,  and  the  slang  of  the  Bowery  had 
been  close  to  the  tip  of  his  tongue.  Now,  when  he 
talked  of  his  studies  and  his  hopes,  his  manner  was 
almost  diffident,  and  his  words  cautiously  chosen  and 
slowly  spoken,  as  if  at  times  he  had  difficulty  in  supply 
ing  a  conventional  word  in  place  of  some  first  suggested 
and  illuminative  term  from  his  slang  vocabulary.  As 
Tom  talked,  his  companion  recalled  a  German  teacher 
who,  with  his  classes,  spoke  in  English  and  German 
indiscriminately,  and  in  other  company  bridled  his 
tongue  while  his  brain  sought  for  the  unaccustomed 
English  phrases. 

At  Faylor's  Tom  produced  his  drawings,  and  Philip, 


86  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

after  ordering  breakfast,  examined  them.  Tom  at  the 
same  time  examined  his  surroundings.  They  were  as 
new  and  strange  to  him  as  they  would  have  been  to  a 
Hottentot.  But  in  a  way  which  he  could  not  have  ex 
plained  if  he  had  thought  about  it,  he  absorbed  the 
conventions,  the  atmosphere  of  the  place,  and  made 
them  part  of  him ;  was  expanded  by  them,  and  to  the 
extent  that  they  affect  and  educate,  was  ineffaceably 
influenced  by  them. 

I  should  remind  you,  perhaps,  that  Tom  had  never, 
for  instance,  had  a  table  napkin  in  his  hand ;  had  never 
seen  more  than  one  knife  and  fork  placed  beside  a  plate ; 
had  actually  never  been  served  at  table  by  any  person 
other  than  one  who  was  eating  with  him ;  had  never 
seen  wine  drunk  at  meals.  The  restaurant  was  nearly 
filled  with  ladies;  detachments  of  the  army  of  shoppers 
who,  not  to  delay  their  feverishly  important  operations 
in  preparation  for  the  summer  campaign,  like  Sherman's 
army,  foraged  freely  on  the  neighboring  plantations; 
and  Faylor's  has  long  been  one  of  the  most  popular 
plantations  with  that  fair  and  peaceful  army. 

Peyton  looked  up  from  the  drawings  and  was  sur 
prised  and  puzzled  not  to  see  Tom  eagerly  waiting  his 
judgment.  "Isn't  it  all  fine:  picturesque,  alive,  well 
colored  and — and  illustrative  and,  and — isn't  it  bully?" 
Tom  whispered  when  he  saw  Philip  looking  at  him. 

"What!  the  drawings?"  Peyton  almost  gasped. 

"Oh,  damn  the  drawings!"  Tom  exclaimed  im 
patiently.  "  I  mean  this — this  scene,  the  people!" 

"  Why,  yes,"  Philip  replied  a  little  doubtfully.  "  An 
old-fashioned,  or  rather  a  conservative  and  quiet  set  of 
people  come  here;  the  kind  that  still  come  this  far 
down-town  to  shop." 

Tom   did  not  comment  or  answer.     He   only  half 


War,  Art,  and  a  Breakfast.  87 

guessed  Peyton's  meaning,  and  the  first  course  of  the 
breakfast  arrived  just  then  to  divert  them.  Peyton  had 
no  knowledge  of  Tom's  history  or  antecedents.  If  he 
guessed  much  during  that  breakfast  he  did  not  show 
that  he  guessed  at  all.  Tom's  observation  was  quick 
and  trained,  and  he  had  an  almost  marvellous  adapt 
ability  to  his  surroundings.  Before  the  meal  was  fin 
ished,  and  it  was  somewhat  elaborate  for  the  place,  only 
a  close  observer  could  have  detected  that  Peyton's  guest 
was  not  accustomed  to  mid-day  dejeuners  a  la  fourchette. 
The  two  men  found  each  other  sympathetic.  Peyton 
told  Tom  that  he  thought  there  was  much  merit  and 
decided  style  in  his  drawings,  and  if  they  were  accept 
able  to  his  paper's  art  department  he  would  try  and  get 
him  an  order  to  illustrate  the  other  stories  he  had  told 
him  for  his  Sunday  special  article. 

"  There  really  should  be  nothing  but  original  features 
about  this  special  article,"  Peyton  said,  "for  the  mere 
suggestion  of  a  special  article  by  me  is  the  most  strik 
ingly  original  thing  that  has  happened  in  the  Guardian 
office  in  years.  You  see  before  you,"  he  continued,  in 
a  lazy,  mock-serious  manner,  "  one  of  the  most  pictur 
esquely  complete  failures  ever  developed  in  newspaper- 
dom.  I  have  been  advanced  the  noble  sum  of  five 
dollars  a  week  twice  since  I  began  my  professional 
career  on  the  Guardian,  and  am  now  drawing  the  glit 
tering  compensation  of  twenty-five  dollars  per  week. 
I  have  been  tried  in  nearly  every  department  of  local 
work,  and  in  each  have  made  a  failure  more  signal  than 
its  predecessor.  I  have  been  besought,  ordered,  begged, 
commanded,  and  advised  to  do  special  work,  and  this 
morning  when  I  made  my  first  suggestion  for  a  special, 
'Stories  of  the  Bowery  Stage,'  my  city  editor,  a  patient, 
long-suffering,  but  optimistic  gentleman,  experienced  a 


88  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

slight  shock  of  paralysis.  He  recovered  sufficiently  to 
tell  me  there  was  hope  for  me  yet,  and  to  implore  me 
to  get  my  copy  in  early  in  the  week.  So  I  have  a  day 
off  from  Police  Headquarters,  where  I  am  working  at 
my  latest  failure,  to  get  this  story  from  you.  I  shall 
see  you  early  this  evening  to  let  you  know  about  the 
other  illustrations.  Until  then  may  heaven's  choicest 
blessings  abide  with  you,  and  let  us  now  go  and  barter 
for  some  good  cigars. " 

This  kind  of  fooling  was  new  to  Tom  and  delighted 
him,  as  did  all  his  experiences  with  his  new  friend. 
He  thought  Peyton  a  wonderful  man,  his  talk  wonder 
ful,  his  breakfast  wonderful,  and  most  wonderful  of  all 
was  the  fact  that  he  was  going  to  have  two  or  three  and 
perhaps  more  of  his  drawings  published  in  the  Guardian. 
They  parted  good  friends:  each  conscious  of  the  other's 
high  regard. 

When  Tom  hurried  back  to  the  Tivoli  he  reflected, 
for  the  first  time,  that  Peyton  did  not  know  really  any 
thing  about  him,  except  that  he  was  an  assistant  scene- 
painter,  and  had  been  a  pupil  in  the  League.  He 
wished  he  had  told  him  where  he  lived,  and  his  heart 
sank  with  the  sudden  thought  that  his  friend  might  not 
have  treated  him  just  as  he  had  if  he  knew  he  lived  in 
a  Mulberry  Bend  tenement.  He  had  met  him  under 
false  pretences!  he  accused  himself.  He  dressed  better 
than  his  class,  and  that  had  deceived  Peyton.  When 
he  reached  the  Tivoli  he  found  Teresa  and  Carminella 
at  the  fruit-stand,  and  he  rattled  off  a  lively  story  of  his 
adventures.  "  And  oh,  Carminella,  I  wish  you  could 
meet  him!"  he  exclaimed.  "  He's  a  swell,  a  real  swell, 
I  could  tell  that  in  a  minute. " 

"How?"  interrupted  Carminella,  with  serious,  big- 
eyed  interest. 


War,  Art,  and  a  Breakfast.  89 

"Oh,  the — his  ensemble,"  Tom  answered,  calling 
upon  his  League-Class  vocabulary  at  this  trying  junc 
ture.  "  His  general  appearance,  walk,  language,  man 
ner — the  way  he  made  me  feel  at  ease."  This  last  with 
conclusive  emphasis. 

"You  would  feel  at  ease  anywhere,"  said  Teresa, 
with  her  impressive,  slow  speech,  but  she  smiled  good- 
naturedly  at  her  handsome  young  tenement-mate. 

"  Except  in  jail,  Teresa,"  Tom  laughed,  as  he  ran  into 
the  theatre. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

BEFORE   AN    INSPECTOR    OF    POLICE. 

THE  Bowery  was  awake  for  the  night  as  Philip  Pey 
ton  crossed  it  that  evening  on  his  way  to  the  Tivoli  to 
keep  his  appointment  with  Tom  Lyon. 

The  Bowery !  Tell  me  not  its  ancient  glory  has  de 
parted.  As  Philip  saw  it  on  that  warm,  bright,  spring 
evening  he  realized,  as  he  never  had  before — this  born 
New  Yorker  just  now  making  his  city's  acquaintance — 
that  the  Bowery  presents,  to  him  who  can  see,  a  micro 
cosm.  There  is  man  in  worldly  condition  from  wealth 
to  bitterest  poverty ;  in  morals,  from  him  who  is  devot 
ing  his  life  to  following  Christ's  example  among  the 
poor,  to  him  to  whom  every  crime  and  vice  are  familiar 
by  practice;  in  social  planes,  the  absolute  dictators  of 
their  set  (not  uninfluenced  by  the  conditions  which 
control  the  scions  of  wealth  and  ancient  lineage  further 
north  on  Manhattan  Island),  to  her  who  cannot  even  be 
called  a  social  outcast,  for,  not  having  been  born  into  a 
family,  she  never  was  cast  out  of  that  unit  of  the  social 
structure,  yet  knows  enough  of  that  social  structure  to 
sullenly  realize,  sometimes,  how  admirably  it  is  built  if 
its  purpose  be  to  keep  her  always  in  dumb,  unprotesting 
piteous  degradation.  One  could  carry  on  this  kind  of 
contrast  to  the  end,  on  the  Bowery.  There  is  the  club 
house  called  after  the  man  who  once  went  to  the  amazed 
gentlemen  composing  the  executive  body  of  a  National 
Political  Committee,  and  with  grave  brevity  demon- 

90 


Before  an  Inspector  of  Police.  91 

strated  that  he  controlled  enough  votes  to  throw  his 
district  one  way  or  the  other;  that  the  way  his  district 
went  the  city  would  go,  and  as  the  city  went  the  state 
would  go;  and  as  the  State  of  New  York  went  that 
year,  the  Presidential  election  would  go.  Then  he  re 
minded  his  hearers  that  a  man  with  less  than  his  cun 
ning  and  power,  an  ignorant  bully,  self-placed  in  control 
of  the  criminal  population  of  a  seaside  resort,  once,  in 
pique,  changed  his  politics,  and  with  them  the  politics 
of  the  administration  of  this  great  and  glorious  and  free 
American  government.  Next,  he  made  certain  con 
ditions  and  gave  the  gentlemen  an  hour  to  accept  them 
— and  they  were  accepted.  Standing  in  front  of  that 
club-house,  when  Philip  passed  it,  was  a  battered, 
mumbling  mass  of  flesh  and  bones  and  rags,  a  man, 
picking  at  his  own  fingers,  and  vaguely  longing  for 
another  election  day;  for  he  recalled  that  on  the  last 
one  he  had  voted  three  times,  had  been  paid  fifty  cents 
for  each  vote,  and  had  thereby,  for  once,  been  able  to 
get  himself  so  drunk  he  forgot  that  he  lived.  It  was  a 
glorious  memory  in  the  mangled  mind  of  that  citizen. 

But  it  was  not  these  phases  of  the  Bowery  which 
entertained  Philip.  From  the  east,  pouring  in  from 
Grand  Street,  came  troops  of  young  men  and  women 
from  the  homes  of  the  well-to-do  shop-keepers.  They 
were  smartly  dressed  in  the  bright  hues  called  out  by 
this  first  warm  spring  evening,  and  they  made  gay  with 
color  and  sound  the  Bowery  throngs  they  joined.  From 
the  west,  from  the  streets  between  the  Bowery  and 
Broadway,  came  the  yet  more  brightly,  if  less  smartly 
dressed  Italian  women  and  girls;  boisterous  Irish- 
American  lads  and  lasses  from  the  south,  Monkey  Hill 
and  Cherry  Hill  way.  From  the  north,  from  Second 
Avenue,  Germans,  by  families,  prosperous,  pleasure- 


92  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

seeking,  beer-hall  bound.  And  from  the  fashionable 
world  stylishly-dressed  parties  of  men,  sometimes  with 
women,  seeing  the  Bowery.  There  were  scarlet  women 
in  silks,  with  brilliant  faces;  scarlet  women  in  rags, 
with  pinched,  unpainted  faces ;  thieves  and  confidence 
men  close  after  rural  visitors;  Jacks  ashore;  soldiers 
from  the  harbor  forts,  gay  in  the  company  of  rogues 
who,  later  in  the  evening,  will  add  some  drops  from 
vials  in  their  pockets  to  Jacks'  and  soldiers'  beer  before 
they  rob  them ;  slum  lassies  from  the  Salvation  Army ; 
policemen,  philosophers,  fools,  and — hummed  Philip, 
"  I  with  my  harp  was  there." 

The  broad,  clean  thoroughfare  was  alive  with  the  cars 
of  a  dozen  surface  lines;  thundrous  as  an  island  beach 
with  the  roar  of  the  elevated  trains,  the  roar  picked  out 
here  and  there  with  the  shrill  piping  of  museum  or 
concert-hall  orchestras;  it  flashed  with  the  added  lights 
from  in  front  of  half  a  score  of  theatres — from  a  hundred 
saloons;  was  sombred  in  spots  by  the  dark  fronts  of 
massive  bank-buildings;  and  everywhere  made  lively 
and  alert  by  the  scurrying  games  of  thousands  of  chil 
dren,  whose  parents,  contented  shop-keepers,  were 
enjoying  their  first  sidewalk  festival  of  the  year. 

Philip  found  Tom  waiting  for  him  in  front  of  the 
Tivoli,  into  which  a  crowd  was  pushing  its  way,  eager 
for  the  fun  of  frolicsome  Aline  as  Morgana,  in  "The 
Forty  Thieves." 

Tom's  heart  bounded  and  sent  a  flush  of  blood  to  his 
cheeks  at  Philip's  greeting:  "The  Czar  of  the  Art 
Department  says  you'll  do,  and  you  are  to  furnish  six 
more  drawings,  and  you  are  to  call  on  him  and  acquire 
useful  knowledge  concerning  the  limitations  of  the 
mechanical  process  by  which  your  works  of  genius  are 
transferred  to  the  virgin  pages  of  the  Guardian,  and, 


A     VOTER. 

It   was  a  glorious   memory    in   the   mangled    mind    of    that    citizen." 

—Page  91. 


Before  an  Inspector  of  Police.  93 

please,  he  wants  the  drawings  in  a  hurry — and,  great 
heavens,  what  a  gloriously  handsome  young  woman !  or 
is  it  a  child,  or  a  vision,  or  what?" 

Tom,  who  was  in  a  thrill  of  excitement  and  joy  at 
what  Philip  said  regarding  his  work,  started,  and 
vaguely  followed  the  other's  glance  at  the  last  of  this 
rattling  talk.  "Oh!"  he  said,  "that  is  Carminella;  she 
is  just  leaving  the  fruit-stand  with  her  mother:  Domi- 
nico,  her  father,  has  come  to  let  them  off.  I  wonder 
what  Cullen  wants.  He's  been  watching  me  for  ten 
minutes." 

Cullen,  our  old  friend  officer  Cullen,  now  in  citi 
zen's  dress,  for  he  has  been  promoted  to  be  a  detective 
sergeant  and  is  known  as  a  "Headquarters  man," 
stepped  toward  the  two  young  men  and,  seeing  that  he 
had  attracted  Philip's  attention,  motioned  to  him. 

Philip  went  over  to  the  detective,  whom  he  knew 
through  his  Police  Headquarters  reporting,  and  they 
walked  a  few  steps  more  away  from  Tom. 

"  Is  he  a  friend  of  yours?"  Cullen  asked  of  Philip, 
indicating  Tom,  who  had  gone  to  speak  to  Carminella. 

"  He  is,"  Philip  responded  promptly  and  decidedly. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  of  it,"  said  Cullen,  a  little  uneasily. 
"  He's  a  friend  of  mine,  too.  That  is,  his  father,  Dan 
Lyon,  put  me  on  the  force,  and  got  me  my  promotions. 
I  earned  my  promotions  right  enough,  but  that  doesn't 
always  get  them  for  a  man.  His  father  has  been  my 
backer  ever  since  I  put  on  the  buttons.  I've  known 
Tom  since  he  was  four,  and  now  I've  got  a  damned 
hard  job  to  do. " 

The  detective's  manner  more  than  what  he  said, 
even,  startled  Philip.  He  looked  at  the  officer  for  a 
moment  in  alarm,  and  then  suddenly  said :  "  Oh !  that 
puller-in  has  sworn  out  a  warrant  for  him." 


94  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

The  detective  shook  his  head.  "Oh,  no!"  he  said. 
"  I  heard  of  that.  The  puller-in  threatened  to  have  a 
warrant  on  Tom,  but  the  officer  on  post  told  him  if  he 
did  he'd  arrest  him  for  assaulting  you.  It  was  a  tech 
nical  assault,  you  know,  putting  his  hand  on  you,  and 
the  puller-in  let  the  matter  drop  mighty  sudden,  for  he 
has  had  one  narrow  squeak  in  the  courts,  and  he  knows 
if  we  ever  have  him  up  again  we'll  make  it  rough  for 
him." 

"What  is  it  then?"  Philip  asked  anxiously. 

"I  don't  know  exactly  myself,"  Cullen  replied. 
"  The  Inspector  wants  him,  and  I  asked  for  the  job  of 
bringing  him  in,  for  an  officer  who  didn't  know  him 
would  go  to  his  home,  and  then  Dan  would  know.  I 
want  to  keep  this  from  Dan  if  I  can.  I  was  not  at 
Headquarters  when  the  complaint  was  made,  but  my 
side  partner  was,  and  heard  that  a  business  man  in  an 
office  where  Dan  Lyon  is  janitor  charges  Tom  with 
having  lifted  a  purse  or  pocket-book.  Now,  Tom  Lyon 
never  lifted  anybody's  purse,  or  anything  else;  I  know 
his  stock  and  there's  none  better." 

"Who  is  it  makes  this  charge?"  Philip  demanded 
indignantly. 

"  A  fellow  I've  heard  of  as  a  sort  of  second-cut  swell, 
a  Mark  Waters. " 

"  Mark  Waters!"  exclaimed  Philip,  with  sudden  as 
tonishment,  "  Mark  Waters  of  the  Niantic  building?" 

"Yes.     Do  you  know  him?"  Cullen  asked  curiously. 

"Well,  I  ought  to  know  him,"  said  Philip  slowly,  in 
a  tone  of  contempt.  "  Yes,  I  ought  to  know  him  much 
better  than  I  do.  I  am  a  fool  for  not  knowing  him 
through  and  through,  and  letting  the  world  know  as 
well.  But  perhaps  I  know  enough.  What  must  you 
do  now,  Cullen?" 


Before  an  Inspector  of  Police.  95 

"  I  have  no  warrant.  This  Waters,  they  tell  me,  was 
in  a  terrible  state  of  mind,  but  wanted  the  Inspector  to 
recover  the  article  without  any  arrest.  The  Inspector 
is  at  dinner  now,  and  he  left  orders  for  Tom  to  be 
brought  in  when  he  returned.  I  came  here  hoping  to 
find  Mr.  Dean,  who  could  square  anything  for  Tom, 
but  Dean  is  out  of  town.  Seeing  you  with  Tom  I 
thought  I'd  speak  to  you,  for  he  needs  a  friend." 

"And  he  has  one,"  Philip  exclaimed  stoutly.  "He 
must  be  told:  let's  call  him  up." 

Tom  had  just  said  good-night  to  Carminella  and  her 
mother  when  Philip  called  him.  He  came  up  laughing 
with  a  story  that  the  reports  about  Morgana's  adventure 
with  her  sailor  lover  had  crowded  the  house,  but  stopped 
suddenly  after  glancing  quickly  at  the  faces  of  the  two 
men.  "What  is  it,  Cullen?"  he  asked,  almost  repeating 
Philip's  question.  "  Has  puller-in  Cohen  sworn  out  a 
warrant  for  me?" 

Cullen  told  him  briefly.  Tom  laughed  at  first,  but 
when  he  saw  they  were  not  joking  with  him,  he  stag 
gered  and  leaned  heavily  against  an  iron  pillar  of  the 
elevated  road. 

':  Purse  stealing!"  he  gasped.  His  face  changed  as 
Philip  never  before  thought  face  of  man  could  change 
in  a  second;  but  he  knew  he  looked  into  the  eyes  of  an 
honest  man. 

"Now,  old  chap,"  said  Philip  assuringly,  putting  his 
arm  over  Tom's  shoulder,  "  I'm  going  to  Headquarters 
with  you  as  your  friend.  Cullen  will  give  us  all  the 
time  we  want  to  do  what  is  necessary.  Mr.  Dean  is 
not  here;  is  there  any  one  else  you  want  hunted  up?" 

What  Philip  said  did  not  seem  to  convey  a  meaning 
to  Tom  for  some  time.  He  looked  at  him  blankly,  and 
after  a  silence  said :  "  My  father  must  not  know.  It 


96  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

would  break  his  heart.  Why!"  he  added  suddenly,  "  I 
was  not  in  the  Niantic  building  five  minutes,  and  was 
not  out  of  sight  of  the  elevator  boy.  Before  Mr.  Dean 
left  the  city  he  gave  me  a  message  for  dad — some  politi 
cal  message  he  only  trusts  to  me — and  I  delivered  it 
late ;  the  building  was  empty,  I  thought ;  anyway  there 
was  no  call  for  the  elevator,  and  the  boy  waited  for  me 
while  I  spoke  to  dad.  I  steal  a  purse? — I — I — My  God, 
Cullen— Peyton " 

"  We'll  get  that  elevator  boy  and  go  around  to  Head 
quarters,  "  interrupted  the  detective  sharply.  He  wanted 
to  give  Tom  something  to  do,  for  he  seemed  like  a  man 
stricken  in  body  and  brain. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  they  reached  Headquarters, 
accompanied  by  Dick,  the  elevator  boy.  Dick  told  them 
of  the  scene  Waters  had  made  in  the  Niantic  building, 
and  that  Tom's  father  had  cautioned  him  to  say  nothing 
about  it  to  Tom ;  thinking  that  nothing  more  would  be 
heard  of  it. 

Cullen  took  Tom  into  the  Inspector's  office  alone  first. 
He  bore  a  message  from  Philip  to  the  Inspector,  saying 
he  was  there  not  as  a  newspaper  man,  but  as  Tom's 
friend. 

When  Cullen  came  out  for  Philip  and  Dick  he  whis 
pered  to  the  former:  "Waters  is  in  the  next  room  and 
the  door  is  ajar.  I  thought  you  might  have  something 
to  say  for  his  benefit. " 

Philip  nodded  and  they  entered.  "  You  give  me  your 
word  this  is  not  for  publication,  Mr.  Peyton,"  said  the 
Inspector,  as  he  nodded  Philip  to  a  seat. 

Philip  walked  over  to  where  Tom  was  standing,  white 
and  trembling  with  rage. 

"I  give  you  my  word,  Mr.  Inspector,"  Philip  said. 
"I  am  interested  in  this  case,  first,  because  this  man," 


Before  an  Inspector  of  Police.  97 

he  laid  his  hand  on  Tom's,  "is  my  friend,  and  also  be 
cause  I  have  a  great  curiosity  to  know  on  what  grounds 
Mark  Waters  can  charge  another  man  with  being  a 
thief." 

As  he  mentioned  Waters'  name  there  was  a  slight 
stir  behind  the  partly  open  door.  The  Inspector  mo 
tioned  to  Cullen  to  close  it,  but  at  a  sign  and  look  from 
the  detective  the  Inspector  smiled  an  instant,  grimly, 
and  turned  to  Philip  saying:  "Cullen  tells  me  you 
have  brought  a  witness  for  Lyon." 

Philip  indicated  Dick,  and  the  Inspector  turned  to  the 
boy  and  said:  "Well,  what  have  you  to  say,  young 
man?" 

Dick  told  his  story  simply,  and  in  a  few  words. 

"That  is  exactly  as  you  told  the  story,"  said  the  In 
spector  turning  to  Tom,  "  and  you  say  your  father — I 
know  him  well — would  be  a  witness  to  the  same  effect?" 

"  He  knows  the  facts,"  answered  Tom. 

"I  guess,  then,"  said  the  Inspector,  slightly  raising 
his  voice,  as  the  quick,  grim  smile  came  and  went 
again,  "  if  the  party  complaining  wants  any  further  in 
vestigation  on  this  line  he  must  go  to  court.  I  am 
much  obliged  to  you  for  coming  without  any  trouble, 
Lyon.  You  probably  know  as  well  as  I  that  I  could  not 
compel  you  to  come  without  a  warrant.  The  party 
complaining  did  not  seem  to  want  a  warrant,  and  this 
is  sometimes  the  quickest  and  simplest  way  of  clearing 
up  a  little  matter  of  this  kind.  Good-night." 

Cullen,  at  a  word  from  his  superior,  went  out  with 
the  others.  When  he  was  alone  the  Inspector  called 
"Mr.  Waters!" 

Mark  Waters  came  into  the  room,  crimson  and  per 
spiring.  "  How  did  that  cub,  Philip  Peyton,  get  into  this 
affair?"  he  growled. 


98  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

The  Inspector  eyed  the  enraged  man  a  moment  in 
silence  before  he  replied,  and  then  it  was  with  a  poorly 
concealed  sneer  that  he  said:  "  He  spoke  loud  enough 
for  you  to  hear,  and  if  you  did  hear  you  know  as  much 
as  I  do  on  that  head.  Now,  Mr.  Waters,  this  matter 
has  turned  out  as  I  predicted.  You  are  on  the  wrong 
scent.  If  you  expect  me  to  do  anything  more  in  the 
case,  you  must  give  me  some  clue.  I  do  not  ask  you  to 
tell  me  why  you  value  the  papers  in  that  pocket-book  so 
highly,  but  I  must  know  to  whom  else  they  would  be  of 
value,  or  what  they  relate  to.  I  must  have  something 
more  to  start  with  than  the  mere  fact  that  you  have 
been  robbed  of  a  pocket-book  containing  less  than  $100, 
for  which  you  are  willing  to  pay  $1,000,  although  the 
papers  are  valueless.  I  can  imagine  a  case,  of  course. 
A  man  is  sometimes  willing  to  pay  as  much  to  recover 
a  love-letter,  for  instance,  but  I  cannot  work  entirely 
on  imagination." 

The  Inspector  seemed  to  be  talking  solely  for  the 
purpose  of  giving  himself  an  opportunity  of  studying 
Waters'  face.  He  was  eying  him  as  if  he  would  read 
every  twitch  of  his  muscles,  every  flood  and  ebb  of  blood 
which  made  the  man's  face  alternately  crimson  and 
gray,  every  contraction  of  the  lips. 

Waters  suddenly  looked  up  and  the  Inspector  care 
lessly  lighted  a  cigar. 

"There  are  circumstances  connected  with  this  case 
which  make  me  want  more  time  before  I  consult  you 
further  about  it,  Mr.  Inspector.  I  am  obliged  to  you 
for  what  you  have  done;  I'll  call  on  you  again.  Good 
night,"  said  Waters  hurriedly. 

"Good-night,  sir." 

When  the  Inspector  was  alone  he  said  musingly: 
"  That  may  be  only  a  case  of  letters  from  another  man's 


Before  an  Inspector  of  Police.  99 

wife,  but  I  think  it  is  bigger  game — it's  dirtier,  any 
way." 

Cullen  and  Dick  left  the  other  two  at  the  corner  of 
Houston  Street,  and  Tom  and  Philip  walked  on  down 
Mulberry  Street  in  silence  for  several  blocks.  Then 
Philip  felt  the  man  by  his  side  shaking  with  convulsive 
sobs.  He  slipped  his  arm  into  Tom's  but  did  not  speak 
until  his  companion  was  quieter.  Then  he  said:  "It 
isn't  anything,  old  fellow.  You*ve  been  accused  of  noth 
ing.  A  brute  like  that  Waters  cannot  be  prevented 
from  being  himself.  He  is  quite  as  likely  to  charge  me 
with  the  offence  as  you,  for  I  go  to  his  office  sometimes." 

"Why,"  Tom  suddenly  exclaimed,  "your  name  is  on 
the  door!  I  thought  the  name  was  familiar:  'Philip 
Ormsbee  Peyton. ' '  He  sharply  recoiled.  "  Have  you 
anything  to  do  with  him?" 

"That  is  my  father's  name  on  his  door,"  replied 
Philip.  "  As  to  what  I  have  to  do  with  him  I'll  tell  you 
some  time.  If  I  were  not  a  lazy,  ignorant  fool  I'd  have 
more  to  do  with  him  ;  probably  not  to  his  profit  or  peace 
of  mind.  But  let  me  tell  you  about  my  experiences 
with  the  police.  Is  this  your  first  arrest?  Oh,  you  are 
only  a  novice!  Listen." 

Philip  told  in  extravagant  language  of  college  pranks 
which  had  led  to  his  arrest  not  once,  but  three  times, 
and  of  one  appearance  in  court,  where  he  was  fined 
and  lectured  for  having  aided  and  abetted  a  party  of 
freshmen  in  transferring  from  its  rightful  place  to  a 
conspicuous  position  over  the  door  of  a  noted  faith-cure 
apostle,  an  undertaker's  signboard.  He  quieted  Tom 
with  his  nonsense,  and  that  was  something.  He 
stopped  short  just  after  they  had  passed  Canal  Street, 
and  looking  about  him  asked  in  surprise :  "  But  where 
in  the  world  are  we  going — slumming?" 


ioo  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

"I  live  in — in  the  slums,"  Tom  answered  bitterly. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  bringing  you  this  far.  I  did 
not  think." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Philip  simply.  "May  I 
go  home  with  you?" 

Tom  was  silent  for  some  time  before  he  answered 
frankly:  "Yes,  I  should  like  to  have  you.  It  will 
please  my  father  to  see  me  with  a — with  you,  when  he 
knows  what  has  happened.  I  must  tell  him  now." 

Dan  was  at  home  and  in  deep  trouble.  He  had  not 
thought  at  first  that  Waters  would  make  any  further 
effort  to  implicate  Tom,  but  when  Tom  did  not  come 
home  as  he  usually  did,  with  Teresa  and  Carminella, 
Dan  had  gone  to  the  Tivoli  and  there  learned  from 
Dominico  that  Tom  had  gone  away  with  Cullen  and  a 
strange  gentleman. 

The  instant  Tom  stepped  into  his  father's  room  each 
saw  in  the  other's  face  the  tragedy  of  great  pride 
bruised  and  hurt  deep.  The  old  man  came  forward 
and  took  both  Tom's  hands,  and  turned  his  pained  face 
defiantly  toward  the  stranger. 

Even  so  slight  a  thing  as  taking  his  boy's  hands  was 
a  rare  demonstration  of  affection  for  Dan,  and  Tom 
choked  a  little  as  he  said :  "  This  gentleman,  Mr.  Pey 
ton,  is  my  friend,  dad.  He  has  been  with  me.  He 
will  tell  you  all  about  it." 

Philip  sat  down  close  to  Dan,  and  simply  and  quietly 
told  the  story  of  the  evening's  adventure.  He  felt  that 
he  was  speaking  well  and  sympathetically,  as  Dan's 
stern  old  face  relaxed  and  the  tears  slowly  welled  to 
his  eyes  and  fell. 

"And  now,"  said  Philip,  when  he  had  finished  his 
story,  "no  one  knows  of  this  who  will  talk  about  it. 
Mark  Waters  has  injured  you.  I  believe  he  has  injured 


FATHER     AND     SON. 

Turned  his  proud,  pained  face  defiantly  toward  the  stranger." 

— Page  ioo 


Before  an  Inspector  of  Police.  101 

a  great  many  people.  He  may  have  injured  me  and 
mine  more  than  any  one  else.  It  may  be  right  for  me 
to  tell  you  about  that  some  time,  but  now  I  do  not  see 
that  anything  is  to  be  done  in  relation  to  him." 

Philip  could  not  help  but  be  aware  that  he  had  done 
good  by  going  home  with  Tom.  He  saw  that  there  was 
comfort  for  Dan  in  having  such  a  friend  for  his  boy  at 
such  a  time.  And  he  saw,  too,  and  never  forgot  it, 
such  pride  in  both  the  father  and  son  as  he  would  not 
have  believed  could  exist  in  the  tenements.  Philip  was 
thinking  of  this,  they  were  all  silent,  when  he  was  con 
scious  of  Dan's  close  scrutiny. 

"You  are  Philip  Ormsbee  Peyton's  son,"  Dan  said 
quietly. 

"I  am." 

" 1  remember  him  when  he  was  not  much  older  than 
you  are  now.  My  father  was  a  porter  in  his  store.  He 
was  a  good  man :  kind  to  the  poor.  I  thank  you,  sir, 
for  doing  so  fair  by  my  boy.  I  am  glad  it  was  your 
father's  son  that  did  it.  Tom  will  be  walking  with  you 
to  your  car."  . 

As  they  arose,  and  Philip  shook  hands  with  tfye  old 
man,  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  ?n  ^rwer.tg 
Dan's,  "Come  in,"  Carminella  entered. 

She  looked  shyly  at  the  stranger,  and  then  turned  to 
Tom.  With  a  sudden  impulse  his  tortured  mind  could 
not  control,  Tom  took  her  hands  and  said,  with  a  poor 
attempt  at  playfulness:  "Carminella,  you'll  not  be 
liking  your  cousin  Tom  when  you  hear  he's  charged 
with  stealing." 

The  girl  straightened  up  with  a  spring,  drew  both 
of  Tom's  hands  to  her  breast,  turned  on  Philip  with 
blazing  eyes,  and  cried: 

"  It  is  lies!     Who  says  so?" 


IO2  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

Philip  was  almost  frightened  at  the  sudden  fierce 
passion  of  the  girl,  as  he  gasped:  "  Surely,  not  I." 

Tom  explained  a  little,  but  did  not  mention  Waters' 
name,  and  Carminella,  as  suddenly  melted  as  she  had 
been  aroused,  turned  to  Philip,  and  said  softly: 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  did  not  know  you  were 
his  friend." 


CHAPTER    X. 

A    FALSE   START   AND   A    FAIR. 

CULLEN'S  description  of  Waters  as  a  second-rate  swell 
would  have  maddened  him  to  crime,  further  crime,  had 
he  heard  it.  Waters  had  an  ideal  dearer  to  him  than 
anything  else  on  earth,  to  realize  which  he  had  already 
sold  himself  to  the  devil  and  wrecked  the  life  and  for 
tune  of  the  only  benefactor  he  ever  had :  to  be  known 
as  a  member  of  a  set  of  men,  gentlemen,  whose  lives 
are  devoted  to  those  various  games,  pastimes,  chances, 
and  recreations  we  have  elected  to  classify  as  "sports." 
For  many  years  before  Philip's  father's  death  Waters  had 
been  his  confidential  manager  in  the  old  business  on 
Pearl  street,  where  the  Peyton  fortune  had  been  made  by 
Philip's  grandfather,  owner  of  many  whaling-ships. 

Philip's  father  had  taken  the  business  and  fortune 
left  to  him,  and  managed  both  with  excellent  care  and 
judgment  for  many  years.  It  was  not  until  the  young 
clerk,  Waters,  had  shown  inclination  and  capacity  for 
relieving  the  merchant  of  many  important  and  irksome 
details  of  his  business  that  Peyton  indulged  to  its  limit 
his  extravagant  fondness  for  sports.  There  was  no 
gambling  instinct  in  him  whatever.  When  he  raced 
horses  which  he  bred,  it  was  for  the  sport,  not  the  pos 
sible  gain  of  racing;  his  yacht  was  not  one  of  those 
which  were  placed  in  commission  for  the  regatta  seasons 
only,  for  he  found  sport  in  cruising,  and  his  yacht  was 
in  commission  for  the  use  of  himself  or  his  friends  the 

103 


104  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

whole  season.  His  rented  trout  streams  in  Canada,  and 
the  cost  of  his  yearly  big  game  expedition  to  the  Rockies 
were  expenses  which  were  four  times  Waters'  liberal 
salary,  and  this  Waters  noted  with  rage  and  envy  in  his 
heart;  but  more  and  more  he  took  the  affairs  of  busi 
ness  from  Peyton's  unresisting  hands. 

One  time,  after  the  merchant  had  given  up  going  to  his 
office  more  than  once  a  month,  some  important  business 
demanding  his  personal  judgment,  he  sent  for  Waters 
to  come  to  him  at  his  Westchester  County  place  on  the 
Sound.  It  was  on  the  eve  of  a  yacht  regatta,  and 
Waters,  who  remained  for  dinner  and  all  night,  met 
half  a  dozen  men  he  had  read  about  in  the  papers  with 
awe  and  fierce  envy  for  years.  Not  in  the  annals  of 
fashionable  society,  although  he  knew  them  to  be  men 
belonging  to  fashionable  families,  but  as  promoters  of 
horse  and  bench  shows,  of  driving  and  hunting  clubs, 
of  gentlemen's  riding  races,  international  yacht  rac 
ing;  of  every  sport  and  sporting  enterprise  in  which 
a  gentleman  may  engage.  To  Waters  these  men's 
lives,  their  achievements,  but  most  of  all  their  renown 
in  the  world,  were  more  enviable  than  vast  wealth  or 
conspicuous  social  eminence  would  be  to  another  man 
differently  constituted. 

Waters  was  first  dazed,  then  thrown  into  an  ecstacy 
of  gratification,  by  their  treatment  of  him  that  evening. 
He  was  suspiciously  alert  for  any  difference  in  their 
manner  toward  him  from  their  manner  to  each  other, 
but  he  discovered  none.  They  were  quiet  and  some 
what  scant  of  speech  in  their  intercourse,  and  so  frank 
and  simple  that  Waters  was  amazed,  although  he  studied 
and  copied  them  with  diligent  fervor.  When  he  went 
to  his  room  he  exulted  aloud.  He  could  not  know  then 
that  not  one  of  the  men  he  had  met  that  evening  would 


THE     YACHTSMEN. 
Ugly-looking  brute,  that  business  man  of  Peyton's/'— Page  105. 


A  False  Start  and  a  Fair.  105 

ever  recognize  him  again  unless  he  was  met  under  ex 
actly  similar  circumstances;  and,  of  course,  he  did  not 
hear  one  guest  say  to  another,  as  they  walked  to  the 
yacht  club-house,  for  a  late  last  consultation  with  their 
skipper : 

"  Ugly-looking  brute,  that  business  man  of  Peyton's." 

"  Yes,"  responded  the  other,  "  looks  like  a  beast  who'd 
give  Phil  a  bad  throw  unless  he  felt  a  tight  rein  all  the 
time." 

One  of  his  friends,  more  intimate  than  the  others, 
suggested  some  such  opinion  as  this  concerning  Waters 
to  Peyton ;  but  the  unsuspicious,  almost  unsophisticated 
man  of  the  world,  only  laughed  and  said: 

"  You  can  judge  a  horse,  a  yacht,  or  a  wine,  Jack,  but 
not  a  man  out  of  your  class." 

Peyton  was  one  who,  having  once  placed  his  confi- 
fidence  in  another,  would  no  more  think  of  withdrawing 
it  until  he  was  conscious  of  some  flagrant  abuse  of  that 
confidence,  than  he  would  ask  for  a  change  in  the  con 
ditions  of  a  yacht-race  after  the  starting-gun  had  been 
fired,  but  he  had  not  "the  art  to  read  the  mind's  con 
struction  in  the  face."  Even  in  the  year  before  the 
financial  storm  which  wrecked  so  many  commercial 
enterprises  better  piloted  than  Peyton's,  when  Waters 
began  urging  the  necessity  of  mortgaging  real  estate  to 
secure  money  required  to  save  the  business,  even  then 
Peyton  did  not  suspect.  Banks  were  shy  about  lending 
money  to  them,  Waters  said,  but  the  banks  saw  the 
storm  approaching  and  were  close-reefing  in  every 
direction.  Property  after  property  was  mortgaged,  and 
just  as  the  storm  broke  over  the  commercial  world,  an 
actual  storm  sent  to  the  bottom  of  the  North  Pacific 
Ocean  a  fleet  of  whalers,  and  with  it  the  result  of  a 
year's  whaling  which  had  been  depended  upon  to  help 


106  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

the  old  Pearl-street  house  ride  safely  out  its  stress  of 
weather. 

When  the  crash  came,  Peyton  was  ill  in  bed :  nothing 
more  than  a  very  severe  cold,  the  doctors  said,  con 
tracted  on  a  duck-shooting  expedition.  The  day  he 
made  an  assignment  to  Mark  Waters  for  the  benefit  of 
all  his  creditors,  Peyton's  illness  developed  pneumonia, 
at  least  that  is  what  the  doctors  said;  some  of  his 
friends  said  that  his  heart  was  broken  when  he  had  to 
tell  his  two  sons,  George,  his  oldest,  and  Philip  Orms- 
bee,  his  youngest  and  namesake,  of  the  miserable  fail 
ure  in  which  his  life  was  ending.  The  sons  thought 
afterward  that  there  was  more  he  had  wished  to  tell 
them,  something  which  distressed  him,  but  for  that 
reason  they  would  not  let  him  talk  any  longer  about 
business.  They  pretended  to  laugh  at  the  failure  which 
had  robbed  them  of  inheritance,  boasted  of  their 
strength,  and  their  ability  and  willingness  to  meet  the 
world,  tried  in  this  way  to  ease  his  mind,  and  held  his 
hands  and  kept  back  their  tears  while  he  died. 

"Thrown  by  that  damned  man,  Waters!'*  some  of 
Peyton's  friends  said. 

If  this  were  so,  it  did  not  seem  likely  that  there  would 
be  any  exposure.  Waters  and  George  were  named  as 
executors  in  the  will.  Waters  was  already  assignee,  and 
when  he  qualified  before  the  court  as  executor  George 
did  not  qualify,  because  of  a  plan,  formed  even  then,  to  go 
to  the  far  west.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  shameful  facts, 
and  suspected  nothing.  He  was  told,  and  believed,  that 
although  the  creditors  would  be  paid  everything,  there 
would  be  nothing  left  to  the  estate  but  an  encumbered 
piece  of  property  in  Mott  street,  occupied  by  Chinese. 
The  income  from  this  property  might  pay  the  interest 
on  the  mortgage,  the  taxes,  and  other  expenses,  Waters 


A  False  Start  and  a  Fair.  107 

hoped.  So  George  and  Philip  held  what  they  called  a 
business  conference.  They  had  sold  all  their  personal 
property,  actually  everything  but  their  rather  extensive 
wardrobes.  "  But  we  really  need  clothes,  Phil,"  George 
had  said.  Their  funds  combined  made  one  thousand 
dollars  after  they  had  paid  all  their  personal  debts. 

"  You  take  it,  George,"  said  Philip.  "  Father  intend 
ed  you  should  go  into  the  business,  so  he  must  have  seen 
that  you  had  some  business  sense." 

"We'll  be  business  partners,  and  this  will  be  our 
capital,"  George  said,  for  he  already  had  a  plan.  "  I'll 
take  this  for  both  of  us.  In  whatever  I  do,  in  whatever 
I  may  earn,  we  will  have  equal  shares." 

This  impressed  Philip  as  having  a  very  sound  and 
business-like  ring  to  it,  and  George,  too,  felt  that  he 
would  have  made  a  great  business  success  if  he  had 
only  devoted  to  commerce  the  time  he  had  spent  in 
perfecting  himself  in  driving  a  four-in-hand.  "Now 
we'll  sign  articles  of  agreement,"  he  added. 

Together,  and  with  much  seriousness,  they  drew  up  a 
paper  which  had  many  of  the  phrases  used  in  agree 
ments  for  foot-ball  matches  and  yacht-races,  and  when 
they  both  signed  it  they  felt  that  this  business  confer 
ence  had  been  conceived  in  wisdom  and  carried  out 
with  judicious  foresight. 

George  was  the  older  and  the  heavier.  Both  were 
impressed  by  the  fact  that  he  weighed  more  than  Philip 
as  a  point  in  favor  of  the  one  who  should  be  intrusted 
with  their  capital  to  make  the  serious  battle  in  life  for 
the  firm.  "  It's  the  weight  that  counts  in  bucking  the 
centre,  in  hauling  on  the  main  sheet,  and  nearly  every 
thing,"  Philip  said  thoughtfully. 

"But  you:  what  are  you  to  do,  Phil?"  George  asked, 
when  the  signing  was  over. 


io8  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

"  I  have  reserved  this  to  surprise  you.  I  am  going  to 
work.  I'm  engaged  as  a  reporter,"  said  Philip. 

"A  re — reporter!"  gasped  his  brother. 

"  I  know  there  is  something  vaguely  humorous  about 
it,"  Philip  responded,  smiling.  "Do  you  remember 
Osgood,  of  your  class?" 

"Yes,  a  reading  man,  wasn't  he?" 

"  Yes.  And  then  he  became  a  writing  man,  and  now 
he  is  what  they  call  City  Editor  of  the  Guardian.  Well, 
I  met  him  the  other  day,  and  he  was  might)7  nice  about 
the — the  affair  you  know.  He  didn't  sympathize,  nor 
anything  of  that  kind,  but  in  a  bully,  frank  manner 
asked  me  what  I  was  going  to  do.  I  told  him  I  might 
train  down  for  a  jockey,  or  apply  for  a  position  as 
skipper,  or  at  least  mate,  of  a  yacht.  He  ignored  my 
feeble  attempts  to  treat  the  matter  humorously,  and 
explained  briefly  this  situation:  the  Guardian,  it  ap 
pears,  does  not  hire  experienced  newspaper  men :  each 
fall,  it  takes  on  (that's  what  they  call  it)  its  local  staff 
a  crop  of  college  graduates.  This  year's  crop  has 
proved  a  failure,  blighted  by  too  much  impressionism,  I 
think  Osgood  said.  It  seems  they  are  going  to  plant 
another  crop,  and,  like  the  brick  he  is,  he  told  me  that 
if  I  wanted  to  try  he  would  put  me  on  the  paper." 

"Osgood  is  a  brick,"  said  George  emphatically.  "I 
wish  I'd  known  him  better  at  college,  but  he  didn't  go 
in  for  athletics  much.  I  remember,  though,  he  used  to 
cheer  like  the  devil  at  the  games.  What's  the  pay? 
Not  more  than  a  hundred  a  week,  I  suppose." 

"No, "said  Philip,  laughing  a  little,  "he  was  very 
explicit  about  that.  I  am  to  have,  to  begin  with,  fif 
teen  dollars  a  week " 

"  But  Phil,  that  won't  do.     You  can't  live  on  that." 

"Oh    yes,  I    can,"    Philip    answered    conclusively. 


A  False  Start  and  a  Fair.  109 

"Other  men  do.  Besides,  if  I  am  approved  I'll  have 
twenty  dollars  a  week  in  two  or  three  months,  and  in 
six  months  more,  twenty-five.  In  a  year,  if  I'm  a  suc 
cess,  they  do  something  to  me  he  called  'putting  me 
on  space. '  That  struck  me  as  if  I  were  to  be  dropped 
off  the  earth,  but  he  encouraged  me  by  saying  that 
newspaper  men  on  space  do  sometimes  earn  the  sum 
you  named." 

A  week  later  George  Peyton  went  to  bid  good-by  to 
the  very  worldly,  the  cynical,  the  merciless,  the  cold 
— she  was  variously  called  all  these  things  by  people 
who  thought  they  knew  her — Miss  Minnie  Hazelhurst. 
George  saw  that  she  had  been  crying,  and  that  nearly 
did  for  him. 

"  I  say,  Minnie,  I'm  not  going  away  forever,"  he  ex 
claimed,  trying  to  be  brave  about  it. 

"  But  you  are  going  away  without  marrying  me,  and 
that  hurts  my  pride." 

George  laughed  at  this  and  said:  "But  I  am  going 
to  marry  you,  only  you  know  you  wouldn't  have  me  if 
I  married  you  now,  when  I  haven't  a  penny." 

"  I've  plenty  of  pennies." 

"  That's  the  trouble,  Minnie." 

"You  know  perfectly  well,  George  Peyton,  there  is 
no  sentiment  in  this."  She  said  this  rapidly,  as  if  she 
thought  in  that  way  to  stifle  a  sob;  and  she  did,  but  she 
had  to  dab  her  handkerchief  at  her  eyes.  "  It's  entirely 
a  matter  of  pride.  I  ordered  you,  when  I  was  four  and 
you  were  six,  to  marry  me,  that  is  the  tradition  in  both 
our  families,  and  I've  been  ordering  you  ever  since " 

"  Except  when  I  took  a  turn  at  the  ordering,  Minnie," 
the  man  interrupted. 

"Well,  you  shouldn't  have  ordered.  Now  you  are 
thirty  and  will  soon  be  bald  and  fat,  and  I'm  an  old 


i  io  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

maid  of  twenty-eight,  and  will  soon  be  thin  and  sour, 
and  all  because  you  have  a  stupid  pride  about  my  hav 
ing  money  and  you  having  none.  I'm  not  talking  very 
coherently,  but  you  know  what  I  mean;  that  in  this 
year,  when  we  always  said  we'd  be  married,  it  seems 
wicked  for  you  to  think  you  have  to  think  you  are 
obliged  to  make  money,  and  can  only  make  it  where 
I'm  certain  they  don't  play  polo,  and  you  can't  get  a 
thing  to  eat — and " 

And  then  that  woman,  whom  the  world  thought  to  be 
so  cold,  could  not  check  the  sobs  any  longer,  and  threw 
herself  into  the  arms  of  her  big  sweetheart.  When  he 
had  petted  her  for  a  time,  somewhat  as  an  affection 
ate  bear  might  have  done,  she  suddenly  exclaimed: 
"  George,  I'll  go  with  you." 

"  To  play  polo  with  me?"  he  asked. 

He  told  her  that  every  one  made  fortunes  out  in  the 
West,  and  he  was  sure  he'd  have  money  enough  in  a 
year  to  preserve  his  self-respect  in  marrying  her.  In 
two  years  certainly,  he  said,  and  he  kissed  her  and  went 
away  and  walked  from  Washington  Square,  through  all 
the  crooked  streets  of  Greenwich,  to  the  North  River, 
before  he  discovered  that  he  was  not  going  toward 
Broadway. 

The  next  morning,  with  his  thousand  dollars,  his  ir 
reproachable  wardrobe,  and  some  excellent  letters,  he 
started  for  San  Francisco,  and  Philip  in  the  afternoon 
reported  a  meeting  of  a  Presbyterian  Synod,  and  in  the 
evening  assisted  a  sporting  reporter  in  sending  the 
news  of  a  prize-fight  from  Coney  Island. 

Mark  Waters  bade  George  good-by  with  expressions 
of  regret,  but  he  walked  out  of  the  Grand  Central  depot, 
after  seeing  George's  train  depart,  with  a  sigh  of  relief 
and  a  much  lightened  heart. 


A  False  Start  and  a  Fair.  1 1 1 

Philip  Peyton,  the  merchant,  had  been  trustee  for 
several  rich  old  estates,  as  his  father  had  been  before 
him.  The  affairs  of  these  trusts  he  had  always  person 
ally  attended  to  with  scrupulous  care  that  none  of  them 
should  in  the  slightest  degree  ever  become  involved  in 
his  own  business.  Nor  had  he  ever  allowed  Waters  to 
acquire  any  implied  authority  in  the  conduct  of  these 
trusts,  as  he  had  in  his  own  business.  This  was  not  an 
evidence  of  any  suspicion  of  Waters;  it  was  because  the 
trusts  were,  in  Peyton's  mind,  something  sacred  which 
he  was  in  honor  bound  to  personally  guard  and  care  for. 

Thus  it  was  that,  when  the  crash  came,  the  affairs  of 
these  estates  were  found  in  sound  and  excellent  con 
dition.  Waters,  before  his  benefactor  had  been  put  in 
his  grave,  had  gone  to  the  principals,  and  the  lawyers 
representing  the  principals,  concerned  in  the  estates, 
and  by  blackening  the  character  of  Peyton,  and  making 
it  appear  that  it  was  only  his,  Waters',  zealous  and 
unceasing  watchfulness  which  had  preserved  the  estates 
intact,  and  unentangled  in  the  affairs  of  the  collapsed 
business,  he  secured  to  himself  the  management  of 
several  of  the  most  profitable.  Then  it  was  he  moved 
his  office  to  the  Niantic  building;  and  although,  where 
it  had  served  his  purpose  to  do  so,  he  had  maligned  the 
business  integrity  of  his  old  employer,  he  was  yet 
shrewd  enough  to  know  that  in  the  new  business  com 
munity  he  sought  to  enter  no  name  would  be  so  potent 
for  him  to  conjure  by;  and  on  his  office  door  he  had 
lettered: 


PHILIP  ORMSBEE  PEYTON, 

ESTATE  OF. 


H2  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

Then  he  pursued,  more  openly  than  he  had  dared  to 
do  while  Peyton  lived,  his  life's  ambition:  to  be  known 
as  a  man  belonging  to  the  one  class  in  New  York  he 
envied  more,  even,  than  he  envied  the  possessors  of 
great  wealth,  except  as  such  possession  enabled  them 
to  indulge  their  inclinations;  that  class,  grown  up 
within  a  generation,  of  men  who  devote  their  active 
energies  to  the  encouragement  and  practice  of  fashion 
able  and  expensive  sports  and  games.  Waters  believed 
himself  fitted  to  shine  in  such  a  set,  as  the  coward 
dreams  of  deeds  of  gallant  daring;  as  the  low-born  lout 
believes  that  only  opportunity  is  lacking  for  him  to 
radiate  a  courtier's  graces;  as  the  pot-house  politician 
fancies  that  if  a  purblind  public  but  saw  aright,  another 
Jefferson  or  Hamilton  would  be  raised  in  his  person  to 
illuminate  American  statecraft. 

Waters  boasted  to  all  who  would  listen,  of  his  ac 
quaintance  with  the  men  he  had  met  at  his  dead  em 
ployer's  board,  and  haunted  public  places  where  he 
would  be  likely  to  meet  them  again;  haunted  the  places 
with  rage  torturing  his  heart  even  after  he  had  learned 
how  calmly  each  of  them  could  cut  him.  He  joined 
such  clubs  as  may  any  man  who  will  pay  the  dues;  even 
owned  and  ran  a  race-horse  one  season ;  was  swindled 
on  every  hand,  and  yet  did  not  find  his  name  in  the 
ravenously  devoured  racing  reports;  attempted  to  drive 
a  decent  team  on  the  road,  and  felt  the  fear  of  death 
when  the  horses,  knowing  a  coward  'prentice  hand  was 
guiding  them,  ran  with  him ;  whereupon  he  left  them 
at  a  wayside  inn,  and  sold  them  the  next  day  for  half 
of  what  they  had  cost  him  ;  eagerly  sought  the  acquaint 
ance  of  such  celebrities  as  were  easily  met,  and  who 
were  willing  to  exchange  a  nod  for  his  expensive  sup 
pers;  felt  murder  in  his  heart  when  at  times  he  would 


THE     FALSE    SPORTSMAN. 
'Even  owned  and  ran  a  race-horse  one  season." — Page  112. 


10 


A  False  Start  and  a  Fair.  nj 

see  the  penniless,  arrogant  son  of  his  benefactor,  Philip 
Peyton,  in  familiar  comradeship  with  those  men  be 
tween  whom  and  himself,  even  his  dull  sensibilities  at 
last  perceived,  there  was  a  wall  he  could  neither  batter 
down  nor  scale.  Then  he  resentfully  accepted  his 
level,  and  became  a  familiar  figure  among  the  over 
dressed,  vulgar  habitues  of  conspicuous  cafes,  stage 
entrances,  and  the  apartments  of  comic-opera  stars. 

But  while  in  his  heart  he  was  conscious  of  his  failure 
and  raged  against  it,  he  did  not  deny  himself  the  pleas 
ure  of  boasting  of  what  he  had  attained,  for  I  do  assure 
you  there  are  not  lacking  men  a-plenty  who  envied  him 
because  in  their  minds  his  position  was  as  glorious  and 
desirable  as,  in  his,  the  heights  he  had  aspired  to  in  vain. 

You  see  it  takes  as  many  kinds  of  men  to  make  a 
world  as,  bless  me!  it  takes  kinds  of  chapters  to  make 
a  book. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

MISS  HELEN'S  ENCOUNTER  WITH  DOMINICO. 

WHEN  Carminella  had  completed  her  fourteenth  year, 
and  with  it  she  finished  six  months  of  what  to  her  was 
almost  a  dream-life,  Dominico  announced  that  she  must 
leave  school  and  help  at  the  fruit-stand.  It  would  be 
two  years  before  she  could  go  on  the  stage  in  any 
capacity,  and  in  those  two  years  she  must  do  all  she 
could  to  help  the  family  fortune.  The  proper,  the  nat 
ural  place  for  her  to  begin  was  at  the  fruit-stand,  in  the 
recess  of  the  closed  entrance  in  front  of  the  Tivoli 
Theatre.  Teresa  wept,  but  Dominico  was  not  to  be 
moved.  Teresa  planned  a  thousand  schemes  of  escape 
for  Carminella,  but  they  each  required  money,  and 
Teresa  had  no  money. 

Is  an  honest  man,  asked  Dominico,  who  works  always 
when  he  does  not  sleep,  and  who  sleeps  as  little  as  pos 
sible,  to  support  a  big  girl  of  fourteen  in  idleness  that 
she  may  read  more  books?  Did  not  his  neighbors  re 
prove  him  and  laugh  at  him  for  trying  to  make  his 
wife's  daughter  a  lady?  Show  him  in  all  the  block, 
from  Baxter  street  to  Mulberry,  from  Bayard  to  Park, 
a  girl  of  fourteen,  yes,  of  twelve,  of  ten,  he  could  say, 
who  did  not  work,  and  then  he  would  do  more  for  Car 
minella,  who  already  had  more  books  in  her  room,  and 
more  book-learning  in  her  head,  than  could  be  found 
anywhere  else  in  the  Bend. 

Teresa  threatened  to  appeal  to  Dan,  and  Dominico 

114 


Miss  Helen's  Encounter  with  Dominico.         115 

threatened  to  beat  her  if  she  did,  Dan  could  judge 
when  their  contract  was  in  question,  but  there  was  no 
contract  now,  for  Carminella  was  fourteen  and  must 
work.  If  Teresa  did  not  like  her  to  work  at  the  stand, 
where  at  least  the  policeman  on  post  could  have  an  eye 
on  her,  and  Tom  was  close  at  hand,  then  Carminella 
could  work  for  the  sweater:  work  half-undressed  in 
sweltering  rooms,  with  men — and  other  girls.  Did 
Teresa  know  what  the  other  girls  were  like? 

"Gesu!  I'll  kill  her  first!"  cried  Teresa. 

Eleanor  Hazelhurst  did  not  let  Carminella  go  without 
a  struggle.  She  saw  that  it  was  a  bitter  thing  for  Car 
minella  to  leave  her,  and  the  child's  love  of  her  and  the 
school  touched  her.  And  besides,  Carminella  really  was 
a  help  in  the  missionary  work.  Teresa  had  schemed 
and  planned,  ceaselessly  and  tirelessly,  to  keep  Carmi 
nella  from  the  people  and  the  life  in  the  Bend.  She  felt 
no  call  of  duty  to  aid  in  ameliorating  the  condition  of 
any  there  except  her  child.  Without  complaining  she 
considered  the  whole  life  there  an  immitigable  evil  from 
which  she  strove  to  protect  her  child  by  her  care,  as  the 
Esquimau  is  protected  from  the  ever-present  lethal 
cold  by  his  encasing  furs.  The  mortal  polar  blasts 
are  no  more  a  fixed  evil  in  their  latitudes  than  was,  to 
Teresa's  thinking,  mortal  corruption  uneradicably 
rooted  in  the  tenements.  But  Carminella  had  been 
taught  in  the  mission  schools  to  observe  and  think 
about  the  life  around  her  as  a  soluble  social  problem. 
Her  sympathies  were  deep  and  quick,  and  these  taught 
her  knowledge  of  existing  conditions  which  Eleanor 
Hazelhurst  eagerly  sought  to  obtain  and  make  known 
to  the  thousands  of  wise  and  charitable  men  and  women 
she  knew  to  be  the  friends  of  the  tenement  mission- 
work.  She  longed  to  be  able  to  present  some  scheme, 


n6  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

not  fundamentally  destined  for  the  alleviation  of  the 
conditions  there — she  saw  such  schemes  either  failing 
of  their  object  or  fertilizing  the  vicious  fields — but  a 
constitutional  cure.  In  the  mean  time,  however,  one  of 
the  immediate  conditions  which  demanded  her  attention 
was  the  state  of  Dominico  Cortese's  mind  concerning 
his  right  to  the  profit  of  Carminella's  services.  "  Your 
father  must  let  you  stay  here;  I  cannot  get  on  without 
you,"  she  had  said  to  Carminella. 

"  You  speak  to  my  father,  then,  Miss  Helen.  He 
may  consent.  No  one  can  refuse  you  anything,"  Car 
minella  besought. 

Biit  Dominico  could  and  did  refuse.  Eleanor  went 
to  him  at  the  fruit-stand.  Dominico  was  cross.  Did 
the  lady  want  Carminella's  mind  filled  with  notions 
which  would  make  her  never  satisfied  to  do  as  her 
mother  did,  help  at  the  stand?  When  did  most  of  her 
pupils  leave  school?  Ah,  at  eight  years  old.  To  be 
sure.  Children  must  work  there  when  they  are  able. 
Surely  they  are  able  at  eight.  No?  Perhaps  she  had 
never  been  on  the  other  side  of  the  Bowery,  over  Hes 
ter  and  Orchard  street  way.  There  they  were  at  work 
for  the  sweaters  at  four  and  five  years  old.  Carminella 
was  nearly  as  big  as  a  woman.  Girls  of  her  age  helped 
their  fathers  drag  hand-organs  about  the  street.  Then 
Carminella  could  help  at  the  stand.  If  Carminella  was 
such  a  help  at  the  school  as  the  signorina  said,  then  let 
the  rich  and  fashionable  people  who  amused  themselves 
by  coming  down  there,  bothering  the  poor  with  notions 
about  living  which  they  never  had  the  wages  to  carry 
out, — why  then  let  the  rich  and  fashionable  pay  him  for 
Carminella's  services  at  the  school.  Or,  concluded 
Dominico,  with  a  grin,  if  the  rich  and  fashionable  folk 
were  not  satisfied  with  the  way  the  people  lived  down 


TERESA. 
'Gesul  I'll  kill  her  first."— Page  115. 


Miss  Helen's  Encounter  with  Dominico.         117 

there,  why  not  give  these  people  some  of  their  money 
so  they  could  live  differently? 

All  of  Dominico's  scolding  was  not  lost  on  Eleanor. 
She  thought  all  the  way  home  of  what  he  had  said 
about  paying  Carminella  for  her  services  at  the  mission 
school,  and  at  home  talked  it  over  with  her  sister,  Min 
nie,  the  worldly,  the  cold-hearted. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Minnie,  after  she  had  listened  to  all 
her  sister  had  to  say,  "there  is  no  reason  why  you 
shouldn't  do  this  sort  of  thing  the  way  you  want  to, 
so  long  as  you  are  determined  to  do  it  at  all.  If  you 
want  to  hire  this  Carminella  about  whom  you  have 
raved  to  me  so,  and  have  spent  all  of  your  allowance  in 
this  cheerful  work,  as  I  suppose  you  have,  it  does  not 
seem  thai  there  is  anything  else  to  be  done  except  for 
me  to  pay  her  father,  who  seems  to  be  the  only  person 
with  a  particle  of  wisdom  you  have  met  down  there, 
whatever  wages  his  daughter  is  worth  to  you.  I  sup 
pose  that  is  the  reason  why  you  have  been  so  charmingly 
confidential  with  me  about  this." 

"  It's  awfully  sweet  of  you,  Minnie,  to  offer  to  do 
this,  for  I  really  haven't  a  cent  in  the  world.  You 
have  no  idea  how  much  money  one  can  give  away  down 
there  when  you  come  to  know  the  distress.  If  you 
could  only  see  this  Carminella  of  mine,  I  know  you'd 
feel  repaid  for  what  you  are  going  to  do  for  her." 

"Yes,  I  dare  say,"  Minnie  replied,  "but  as  she  is 
likely  never  to  leave  the  slums  I  am  just  as  likely  never 
to  have  that  pleasure.  By  the  way,  doesn't  the  poor 
youngster  want  some  clothes?  I  was  thinking  about 
that  to-day.  I  could  make  her  up  a  trunkful  of  mine." 

Eleanor  laughed  outright  as  she  exclaimed: 

"  Oh,  Minnie,  those  people  are  as  unknown  to  you,  and 
always  will  be,  I  suppose,  as  the  inhabitants  of  Jupiter! 


n8  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

The  simplest  gown  you  have  Carminella  could  no  more 
wear  in  Mulberry  Bend  than  you  could  wear  her  finest 
gown  to  the  Patriarchs'  Ball.  Besides,  somehow,  I 
wouldn't  care  to  offer  Carminella  clothes." 

"  Oh,  in  her  case  you  confine  yourself  to  providing 
spiritual  raiment  only.  It  must  be  very  interesting. 
I'm  going  to  dress  for  dinner,"  said  Minnie. 

But  Eleanor's  plan,  financed  by  Minnie,  came  to 
naught.  She  proposed  it  to  Dominico  and  Teresa  at 
the  fruit-stand  one  day,  and  observed  two  remarkable 
exhibitions  of  character.  Teresa's  eyes  filled  with  tears 
and  she  began  with  quick  emotion  to  express  her  grati 
tude.  She  checked  herself  at  a  look  and  a  smothered 
curse  from  Dominico.  It  would  be  entirely  a  question 
of  money,  he  said,  crowding  in  front  of  Teresa.  How 
much  would  the  signorina  pay  for  his  daughter's  ser 
vices?  The  lady  should  pay  well,  for  Carminella  could 
not  onl)7  help  with  the  care  of  teaching  the  youngest 
pupils,  but  could  sweep  and  scrub  and  wash. 

Dominico  translated  the  look  of  annoyance  in  Elea 
nor's  face  to  mean  that  he  had  overreached  her  by  his 
shrewdness  and  cunning,  but  Teresa  saw  and  under 
stood  and  blessed  Eleanor,  who  would  not  treat  Car 
minella  as  a  drudge. 

"Carminella  should  be  dressed,"  began  Eleanor  with 
some  hesitation,  for  Dominico  was  eying  her  with  al 
most  fierce  greed,  "should  be  dressed  a  little  differ 
ently."  She  glanced  at  her  own  quiet  gown.  "  I  will 
provide  her  with  proper — with  other — clothes." 

Dominico  looked  elated,  Teresa  indignant.  Eleanor 
saw  and  added  quickly,  looking  at  the  mother,  "  which 
she  can  repay  me  for  from  her  salary." 

Dominico  scowled  and  Teresa  looked  relieved. 

"I  shall  inquire,"  continued  Eleanor,  "what  the  pay 


Miss  Helen's  Encounter  with  Dominico.         1 19 

is  of  teachers  of  the  youngest  classes  in  the  public 
schools,  and ' 

"Oh  no!"  interrupted  Dominico  roughly.  "Fools 
may  teach  in  the  public  schools  if  they  have  the  politics 
to  get  appointed.  Carminella  must  have  more:  much 
more  if  she  is  to  be  made  to  dress  like  a  lady." 

Eleanor  looked  hopelessly  at  Teresa,  who  made  a 
little  sign:  "We  must  talk  it  over  with  Dan:  Domini- 
co's  friend  Dan,"  she  said.  If  Miss  Helen  (Eleanor 
was  still  known  only  as  Miss  Helen  in  her  charity 
school  work)  would  be  so  good  as  to  see  them  again. 

Eleanor  said  she  would,  and  went  her  way. 

When  she  left  them  the  Italians  quarrelled  sharply. 
Teresa  said  passionately  that  Carminella  was  her  child 
and  Dominico  had  no  business  to  interfere  to  prevent 
the  girl  from  taking  service  which  would  make  a  lady 
of  her.  Yes,  said  Dominico,  she  should  make  a  lady 
of  herself,  but  she  should  make  money  for  them  too. 
She  was  their  only  child  and  made  nothing;  their 
neighbors  had  many  children  and  all  earned  wages. 
Was  he  to  be  a  fool  and  not  make  the  most  of  his 
chance?  He  knew  the  rich.  They  beat  the  poor 
whenever  they  could.  But  he  was  too  sharp  for  them. 
He  would  make  them  pay  back  some  of  the  hard-earned 
money  he  had  wasted  these  many  years  on  Lady  Car 
minella.  His  neighbors  would  not  call  him  a  fool  any 
longer. 

The  case  was  presented  to  Dan,  who  took  it  under 
advisement.  At  the  first  it  seemed  to  him  that  this 
was  a  fortunate  offer  for  Carminella,  but  then  he  thought 
of  the  contingencies.  When  Miss  Helen  left  the  work, 
as  she  surely  would — they  all  did — Carminella  might 
have  no  friend  to  keep  her  in  the  place.  It  would  be 
harder  then  for  her  to  go  back  to  the  fruit-stand  than  if 


12O  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

she  had  never  been  associated  as  an  equal  with  fine 
folk.  Tom  was  making  fine  friends,  to  be  sure,  but 
Tom  had  a  fine  trade,  and  could  make  his  own  way. 
Besides  that — but  this  Dan  did  not  discuss  with  Domi- 
nico  and  Teresa — he,  Dan,  had  something  which  war 
ranted  Tom  in  seeking  a  life  better  than  the  tenements. 
This  was  something  the  cautious  old  man  discussed 
with  no  one.  For  many  years  he  had  been  saving  his 
own  and  Tom's  wages  (Tom  had  not  controlled  his 
own  until  he  was  of  age),  saving  them  and  investing 
them  until  now — but  they  would  know  pretty  soon. 
When  the  Bend  was  made  into  a  Park — Dan  grumbled 
sometimes  because  the  city  was  so  slow  about  that  Park 
— he  would  surprise  Tom,  surprise  the  world. 

But  about  Carminella.  To  be  sure  it  was  right  for 
those  who  did  not  like  it  to  try  to  get  out  of  this  tene 
ment  life.  But  they  must  be  careful  with  the  first  step, 
else  they  might  slip  back  further  than  from  where 
they  started.  He  had  seen  plenty  of  that  tragedy. 
There  was  Bill,  his  foster-son!  But  Dan  would  not 
even  think  about  Bill.  His  pride,  but  not  his  affection, 
had  been  hurt  there.  Bill  was  not  of  his  or  even  Tom's 
blood.  Dan  had  tried  to  do  well  by  him,  had  failed, 
and  finally  cast  him  off,  but  not  until  Bill  had  come  into 
conflict  with  the  law — the  law  that  Dan  so  profoundly 
respected. 

Ah  well !  he  would  consider  the  offer  of  Miss  Helen 
to  engage  Carminella,  Carminella  for  whom  Dan  had 
almost  the  affection  of  a  father;  Carminella  their 
daughter  of  the  tenements. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

A  BOWERY  BALLET-DANCER'S  Df  BUT. 

IN  the  mean  time  Carminella  had  taken  her  regular 
watch  at  the  fruit-stand.  This,  Teresa  had  arranged, 
was  in  the  lightest  business  hours  of  the  day,  the  morn 
ing  hours,  and  Tom  went  and  returned  with  her  as  he 
went  to  his  work  and  returned  for  lunch.  Although 
they  had  been  the  dullest  business  hours  Carminella's 
beauty  drew  so  much  custom  to  the  stand  that  the  trade 
grew  until  the  morning  watch  returned  more  profit  to 
Dominico  than  any  other.  All  of  these  new  customers 
were  not  polite.  Sometimes  when  Tom  came  from  the 
paint-bridge  of  the  theatre  to  walk  home  with  Carmi 
nella,  who  was  relieved  at  noon  by  her  mother,  his  blood 
boiled  at  the  frightened  look  on  the  girl's  face  and 
Teresa's  wrathful  eyes  which  told  him  plainly  enough  of 
some  attempted  familiarity,  some  rough  pleasantry,  not 
evilly  intended  perhaps,  but  which  had  frightened  or 
shocked  the  girl.  Tom  then  felt  as  if  he  saw  Carmi 
nella  pinned  down  by  immovable  timbers  which  held 
her  against  all  struggles,  a  victim  for  swiftly  oncoming 
flames.  Sometimes,  as  they  walked  home  together, 
when  Tom's  heart  had  been  stabbed  by  the  sight  of  that 
frightened  look  on  the  girl's  face,  he  would  groan  aloud, 
and  Carminella,  understanding,  would  press  his  hand 
and  tell  him  not  to  care. 

Then  it  was  that  Tom  first  thought  of  how  some  day, 
121 


122  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

if  when  this  child  became  a  woman  she  would  love 
him,  he  would  save  her  from  every  trial  and  trouble 
and  heart-ache  by  making  her  his  wife.  But  he  never 
breathed  this  thought  to  her  whom  he  still  looked  upon 
as  a  child;  for  it  seemed  so  little  while  ago  that  he 
"minded"  her,  was  the  big  protecting  brother  of  the 
dark-eyed,  beautiful  baby. 

Miss  Helen  duly  made  a  definite  offer  for  Carmi- 
nella's  services,  and  Dominico  piggishly  fought  for  more 
pay,  although  Teresa  pointed  out  that  her  proposed 
salary  was  as  much  as  a  roomful  of  their  neighbors' 
children  made  at  covering  buttons,  finishing  "pants,"  or 
sewing  sleeves  in  coats.  Some  of  Dominico's  churlish 
ness  was  reported  to  Minnie  Hazelhurst  by  Eleanor, 
and  Minnie's  prompt  proposal  to  have  Dominico  sent  to 
jail  for  being  such  a  brute  seemed  quite  a  reasonable 
plan  to  the  charity-school  teacher,  so  baffled  and  an 
noyed  she  was  by  the  Italian's  greed  and  ill-nature. 
Minnie  at  last  announced  that  she  would  go  down  and 
see  Dominico  herself,  but  when  Eleanor  pictured  the 
lurid  scene  likely  to  result  from  such  an  interview,  she 
begged  her  sister  to  abandon  her  heroic  purpose. 

One  noon,  just  as  Teresa  arrived  at  the  stand,  Domi 
nico  came  up  with  a  fresh  purchase  of  fruit.  Tom  and 
the  Tivoli  stage-manager  came  out  of  the  theatre  and 
the  latter  went  to  the  stand  and  bought  some  oranges 
from  Carminella.  As  he  turned  to  go,  after  a  pleasant 
word  with  her,  he  stopped,  eyed  her  critically,  observ 
ing  her  height,  her  lithe,  gracefully  poised  figure,  and 
then  turned  to  Dominico  and  said :  "  It's  a  pity  the  girl 
isn't  sixteen  years  old,  Minico.  I  could  put  her  on  in 
the  ballet  at  the  next  production  if  she  was  legal  age." 

Teresa's  heart  gave  a  great  bound,  but  she  was  silent, 
as  Dominico  hoped  she  would  be.  Then  Dominico 


A  Bowery  Ballet-Dancer's  Debut.  123 

looked  hard  at  Mr.  Foster  the  stage-manager,  and  said 
significantly:  "She  might  be  sixteen  if  it  is  a  good 
job." 

Foster  understood.  At  the  Tivoli,  in  the  heart  of  a 
community  where  thousands  of  girls  worked  under  age 
in  the  factory,  his  ballet  had  frequently  been  recruited 
by  the  quickly  developed  Italian  girls  of  fourteen  and 
fifteen  years  of  age,  bearing  certificates  attesting  their 
age  to  be  sixteen. 

"Well,"  said  the  stage-manager  after  a  pause,  during 
which  he  curiously  eyed  Teresa,  for  her  face  was 
flushed  and  her  eyes  shining  strangely,  "you  never 
can  tell  how  a  new  production  will  go.  Can  you,  Mrs. 
Cortese?" 

Teresa  shook  her  head. 

"But,"  he  added,  peeling  an  orange  methodically, 
"  Mr.  Dean  is  letting  us  spend  a  lot  of  money  on  this 
one,  and  it  is  going  to  be  a  stunner  for  this  part  of 
town.  It  ought  to  have  a  three  months'  run,  at  least. 
We  begin  rehearsals  next  week.  You  can  send  the  girl 
in  if  you  want  to.  She'll  get  five  dollars  a  week." 

Teresa  heard  this  with  a  tumult  of  emotion.  It  was 
the  opening  which  might  lead  to  Carminella's  profiting 
by  all  the  years  of  training  her  body  had  received,  and 
might  lead — for  now  more  than  in  the  mother's  time  on 
the  stage  "speaking"  characters  were  developed  from 
the  ranks  of  the  ballet — it  might  lead,  also,  to  Carmin 
ella's  profiting  by  the  training  her  mind  had  received. 
The  career  of  a  teacher,  which  Miss  Helen's  offer  had 
hinted  at,  was  remote  at  best,  and  between  the  child 
and  that  career  were  many  great  obstacles,  as  Dan  had 
pointed  out.  But  for  a  stage  career  she  was  equipped 
as  well  as  any  beginner,  better  as  to  physical  training, 
than  the  majority.  And  on  the  stage  her  antecedents, 


124  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

the  class  from  which  she  sprang,  would  be  no  obstacle, 
as  it  surely  would  be  in  the  other  career  Miss  Helen's 
offer  had  suggested. 

They  talked  this  over  long  and  anxiously  with  Dan. 
Dominico  favored  it.  He  was  resentful  and  bitter 
toward  Miss  Helen,  and  in  his  secret  mind  he  argued 
that  the  rich  lady  would  be  brought  to  his  terms  when 
she  saw  that  Carminella  was  being  placed  forever  be 
yond  her  influence.  Teresa  raised  points  which  Dan 
had  to  arrange.  First,  she  would  not  sign  a  certificate 
that  Carminella  was  sixteen,  as  Dominico  urged.  She 
would  consent  that  Carminella  should  enter  the  ballet, 
and  take  chances  of  a  question  being  raised  as  to  her  age. 

Teresa  was  no  longer  fearful  of  "the  Society."  She 
admitted  that  that  once-dreaded  institution  might  inter 
fere  with  Carminella's  stage  career  for  a  year  or  two, 
but  she  did  not  fear,  as  she  once  would,  that  the  Societ)^ 
would  rob  her  of  her  child.  She  had  become  acquainted 
with  something  more  powerful  even  than  the  Society: 
Charles  Dean's  influence  with  all  persons  in  authority. 
Teresa  could  trust  to  that  magically  potent  influence 
to  save  Carminella  from  annoyance  if  the  question  of 
her  age  was  raised.  If  it  was,  why  Carminella  could 
be  taken  from  the  theatre  and  that  would  end  the  mat 
ter.  But  it  was  not  likely  to  be  raised.  Carminella, 
they  all  agreed,  looked  as  old  as  girls  of  eighteen  of 
American  parents.  Then  arose  another  and  greater 
obstacle.  Teresa  made  as  a  condition  to  Carminella's 
accepting  Mr.  Foster's  offer  that  Dominico  should  em 
ploy  assistants  not  only  to  take  Carminella's  place  at 
the  stand,  but  her's,  Teresa's,  as  well. 

"Why  yours?"  demanded  Dominico. 

"Because,"  said  Teresa,  and  she  spoke  in  the  manner 
Dominico  well  knew  admitted  of  no  successful  oppo- 


A  Bowery  Ballet-Dancer's  Debut.  125 

sition :  "  Because  Carminella  must  never  be  out  of  my 
sight.  At  rehearsal  or  performance  never  out  of  my 
sight.  Never;  I  know  what  it  is.  No,  the  girl  could 
go  to  the  sweat-shops,  if  Dominico  insisted,  but  not  on 
the  stage  unless  her  mother  was  there.  Always  there !" 

Dominico  stormed,  and  wept,  but  it  made  no  differ 
ence.  He  tried  to  bully,  but  Dan  shut  him  up. 

"It  is  a  gamble,"  said  Teresa.  "If  Carminella  suc 
ceeds  she  may  earn  twenty  dollars  a  week.  Yes,  pos 
sibly,  twenty-five.  If  Dominico  did  not  want  to  take 
the  risk,  well." 

At  the  mention  of  these  figures  Dominico's  eyes 
gleamed.  Dan  considered,  and  said  Teresa  was  right. 
Both  the  women's  places  at  the  fruit-stand  could  be 
filled  for  two  dollars  a  week,  and  then  there  would  still 
be  left  a  profit  of  three  dollars  from  Carminella's 
wages.  Dominico  groaned  and  pretended  to  be  much 
abused,  but  agreed  to  all  the  terms. 

The  next  week  Teresa  appeared  with  Carminella  at 
the  Tivoli  stage  for  rehearsal.  The  dim  lights,  the 
hurry  and  crowding  and  preliminary  confusion,  the 
clatter  and  shouts  of  the  stage-hands,  even  the  musty 
smells,  were  as  music  and  incense  to  the  women.  She 
was  trembling  with  the  excitement  of  recollection  as 
she  stood  in  the  wings  while  the  ballet-master  classified 
the  raw  and  seasoned  material  before  him.  First,  there 
was  a  class  of  trained  ballet  from  the  up-town  theatres 
who  had  been  "  specially  engaged"  for  this  production, 
and  accounted  themselves  lucky,  for  if  the  production 
was  a  success  it  would  carry  them  through  the  dreaded 
summer  season  when  the  up-town  theatres  were  closed 
and  their  earnings  cut  off.  They  were  nearly  all  Irish- 
American  women,  not  at  all  unfamiliar  with  the  sur 
roundings,  for  most  of  them  had  been  born  in  that  part 
ii 


126  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

of  the  city,  lower  down,  and  many  of  them  were  gradu 
ates  of  the  Tivoli  and  other  Bowery  stages.  The  next 
class  were  the  most  experienced  of  the  Tivoli  ballet. 
They  were  mostly  Jewesses,  foreign  and  native  born, 
with  a  few  Irish-American  among  them.  The  third 
class  were  young  women  who  had  occasional  engage 
ments  at  the  Tivoli.  They  were  a  solid  rank  of  New 
York  born  Jewesses,  young,  handsome,  Oriental-look 
ing,  slovenly  dressed.  The  last  class  intended  for  figur 
antes  were  all  novices  and  nearly  all  Italian. 

The  successive  waves  of  immigration  which  had 
swept  in  and  over  the  lower  east  side  of  New  York 
might  have  been  noted  in  the  four  ranks  by  a  student 
of  social  phenomena  of  that  neighborhood. 

The  ballet-master,  an  excitable  little  old  Italian,  also 
"specially  engaged,"  soon  had  his  material  in  four 
ranks,  and  inspected  them  as  an  adjutant  inspects  sol 
diers  at  guard-mount.  The  first  row  was  passed  over 
quickly.  They  were  veterans,  that  could  be  seen  by 
their  manner  of  standing  still.  An  easy  thing  to  do, 
you  say?  Ask  a  ballet-master.  It  takes  anywhere  from 
a  week  to  a  month  to  teach  the  most  promising  candi 
date  to  stand  well;  from  a  month  to  a  year  to  teach  her 
to  walk  across  the  stage  so  as  not  to  be  noticeably 
awkward. 

With  the  inspection  of  the  second  rank  trouble  began. 
The  master  called  upon  some  invisible  deity  located 
apparently  somewhere  up  in  the  flies,  and  asked  with 
hopeless  shrugs  of  the  shoulders  if  in  his  old  age  he  was 
to  be  punished  by  having  such  material  imposed  upon 
him.  The  front  rank  giggled,  the  second  rank  wept, 
and  the  third  rank  trembled.  However,  he  only  ordered 
out  one  of  the  seconds,  and  replaced  her  with  a  waiting 
candidate.  There  was  more  anguish  with  the  third 


THE     BALLET-MASTER. 
'An  excitable  little  old  Italian,  specially  engaged."— Page  126. 


A  Bowery  Ballet  Dancer's  Debut.  127 

rank.  Four  were  expelled  from  that.  When  the  places 
of  three  there  had  been  filled  from  the  substitutes  in  the 
wings,  the  master's  eye  fell  upon  Carminella. 

"  Step  forward,"  he  suddenly  said  to  her.  Carminella 
marched  forward  one,  two,  three,  four  paces,  when  the 
master  clapped  his  hands,  and  she  stood  still  while  the 
ballet-master  studied  her  pose  critically. 

"You  come  here,"  he  said,  and  Carminella  was  ad 
vanced  to  the  third  rank.  Teresa's  heart  beat  as  might 
another  mother's  watching  a  daughter  reading  the 
valedictory  at  the  Commencement  of  a  fashionable 
college.  "It  is  my  teaching,"  she  said  to  herself,  and 
she  wondered  where  she  had  seen  that  ballet-master 
before. 

There  was  a  piano  for  them  to  rehearse  by,  and 
Carminella's  rank  had  only  marching  to  do,  yet  as  she 
swung  up  and  down  the  stage,  obeying  the  frantically 
shouted  orders  of  the  ballet-master,  wheeling,  stopping, 
repeating  over  and  over  some  single  movement,  the 
child  felt  as  an  eagle,  born  and  taught  to  fly  in  a  cage, 
must  feel  at  its  first  moment  of  liberty. 

The  ballet-master  observed  her,  puzzled.  "  She  is  a 
beginner?"  he  asked  of  the  stage-manager.  Suddenly 
he  thrust  out  a  second-rank  woman,  told  her  to  take  her 
place  in  the  third  rank,  and  promoted  Carminella.  For 
an  hour  without  stopping,  the  women  were  drilled  in 
the  simplest  of  their  evolutions,  and  then  a  halt  was 
called  for  rest. 

The  ballet-master  sank  down  in  a  chair  near  where 
Teresa  and  Carminella  stood.  "She  has  style:  she 
promises  well,"  he  said  in  Italian  to  Teresa,  indicating 
Carminella  by  a  wave  of  the  handkerchief  with  which 
he  had  been  mopping  his  face. 

"I  am  glad,"  Teresa  answered  in  English. 


128  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

The  man  stared  at  her  and  said :  "  You  worked  at 
this.  I  have  seen  you.  Where?" 

"I  was  Teresa  Cesarotti,  of  the  Arcadians,"  she  re 
sponded,  and  felt  as  if  she  were  speaking  of  herself  in 
another  state  of  existence. 

The  master  stared  harder  than  before,  and  then  sud 
denly  exclaimed: 

"  Teresa!  of  the  'Longs' !  and  you  have  forgotten  me? 
Ah,  I  am  growing  too  old  to  be  remembered  by  any 
one  but  the  devil.  Poor  old  Polli !" 

Teresa  remembered  him  then,  and  he  asked  her  if 
she  was  looking  for  work  in  the  production.  If  she  was 
he  would  put  her  in  the  first  row.  He  would  be  glad 
to  have  her.  Women  were  not  trained  for  the  ballet 
nowadays  as  she  had  been  trained. 

"I  cannot  do  this  work  any  more,"  she  answered, 
smiling  sadly,  "I  am  lame." 

Professor  Polli  was  tearfully  sympathetic  in  an  in 
stant.  Yes,  he  recalled.  An  accident,  was  it  not,  at 
the  Arcady?  Ah,  the  ballet  women  could  dance  in 
those  days!  Did  she  remember  Maggie  Lyon?  Yes? 
She  is  Marie  Leon  now,  and  a  London  sensation. 
Speaking  parts!  Yes,  indeed;  speaking  and  singing. 
Too  stout  to  dance,  Polli  had  heard.  And  who  was  this 
promising  girl  by  Teresa's  side?  the  old  ballet-master 
prattled  on. 

"  It  is  my  daughter;  my  name  is  Cortese  now,"  Teresa 
answered. 

"Oh,  that  was  the  secret!  Teresa  had  trained  the 
child,"  Polli  exclaimed,  relieved  to  find  an  explanation 
of  the  puzzle.  "  Since  she  was  three?  That  was  right. 
She  might  become  a  dancer."  Then  he  spoke  rapidly 
in  the  patois  he  recalled  Teresa  spoke,  hoping  the  girl 
could  not  understand,  saying  that  he  would  not  advance 


A  Bowery  Ballet  Dancer's  Debut.  129 

her  to  the  front  rank,  although  with  three  weeks'  drill 
ing  at  rehearsals  she  might  do  there.  Let  her  get  her 
stage  ease  first  in  the  second  class.  In  the  next  pro 
duction  there  would  be  a  good  chance  for  La  Cortese. 

Polli  directed  the  rehearsals  for  two  weeks,  and  then 
left  them  in  charge  of  the  "  house"  ballet-master,  the 
director  in  permanent  charge  of  the  Tivoli  ballet.  This 
man  found  Teresa's  aid  useful  in  the  last  week's  rehear 
sals,  and  in  that  way  she  became  tacitly  considered  a 
stage  attachee.  Without  salary  to  be  sure,  but  Teresa 
did  not  care ;  she  was  glad  to  have  established  a  position 
there  which  would  allow  her  to  be  near  Carminella  at 
all  times.  Her  suggestions  to  the  costumer  were  use 
ful,  too,  and  on  the  evening  of  the  first  production 
Teresa  helped  Carminella  and  a  room  full  of  women  in 
their  dressing.  With  Carminella  she  was  like  a  mother 
dressing  her  daughter  for  her  debut  ball,  and  when  the 
first  call  for  the  ballet  was  shouted,  she  critically  ex 
amined  every  detail  of  the  pretty  sailor-boy's  costume 
Carminella  wore,  and  then,  excited  and  proud,  she  took 
her  place  in  the  wings  by  Tom's  side.  Tom  had  given 
seats  to  his  father  and  Dominico  in  the  balcony,  and 
there  were  four  eager  pairs  of  eyes  watching  for  one 
figure  in  the  ballet  group  which  came  on  next  to  the 
last ;  for  they  entered  in  reverse  order  to  their  impor 
tance  in  the  composition,  as  "  originally  arranged  and 
personally  directed  by  Professor  Polli,"  said  a  line  in 
the  programme. 

More  than  four  eager  spectators  picked  out  Car 
minella  as  her  line  entered,  came  down  the  stage  with 
a  sharply  accentuated  zig-zag  skip,  alternated  with 
a  long,  graceful,  sweeping  step,  their  arms  hauling  on 
invisible  halyards  after  the  fashion  of  all  sailors  in 
the  ballet,  divided  at  the  footlights,  and  took  their 


130  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

places  in  front  of  the  line  of  glittering  troops  belong 
ing  to  the  army  of  no  less  distinguished  a  personage 
than  the  Maharaja  of  Muggy-Poo,  which  had  preceded 
the  sailors.  Carminella  stood  at  the  down-stage  end 
of  one  line  of  the  sailor  crew,  and  the  large  percentage 
of  foreigners  in  the  audience,  more  critical  in  such 
matters  than  the  Americans,  singled  her  out  not  only 
for  the  grace,  precision,  and  springiness  of  her  move 
ments,  but  for  the  ease  of  her  pose  as  she  stood  at  salute, 
hand  at  cap,  prepared  to  welcome  the  entrance  of  the 
resplendent  admiral ;  who,  being  a  woman  and  the  star 
of  the  piece,  ventured  to  dispense  with  the  trousers  of 
the  American  Navy  uniform  in  favor  of  pale-blue  silk 
tights.  Every  instant  of  time  Teresa  watched  Carmi 
nella  and  noted  a  dozen  trifling  faults  for  correction,  and 
yet  she  felt  satisfied  and  hopeful,  and  dreamed  of  suc 
cesses  for  her  child  she  had  once  dreamed  of  for  herself. 

When  the  curtain  fell  on  the  first  act,  Mr.  Foster,  the 
stage-manager,  listened  with  acute  anxiety  to  the  ap 
plause.  His  ear  detected  the  clatter  of  the  claque  and 
cast  it  aside ;  and  he  smiled  and  drew  a  deep  breath  of 
joy  as  above  and  beyond  the  claque  there  mounted  the 
welcome  roar  of  spontaneous  and  enthusiastic  applause 
for  which  the  curtain  had  to  be  raised  for  the  ensemble 
dance  twice.  In  his  office  Mr.  Dean  gravely  received 
the  congratulations  of  his  friends. 

"It's  a  return  to  the  old-time  glory  of  the  Bowery," 
said  the  heavy,  slow-spoken,  ruddy-faced,  gray-mous- 
tached  elders  of  the  neighborhood,  whose  pride  in  the 
Bowery  is  their  religion. 

In  the  second  act  there  was  an  interior  of  an  Indian 
palace,  and  the  instant  the  calcium  light  flooded  its 
brilliant  and  harmonious  colors  and  revealed  its  stately, 
far-vistad  columns  and  suave  arches,  there  started  in 


PATERNAL     PRIDE. 
•That  yell  was  as  Irish  as  the  green  sod  of  Gal  way. "—Page  130. 


A  Bowery  Ballet  Dancer's  Debut.  131 

the  galleries,  where  the  Orientals  swarmed,  and  quickly 
extended  to  the  less  impressionable  Americans  in  the 
lower  parts  of  the  house,  a  tumult  of  demand  for  "Ar 
tist!  Artist!" 

The  stage  was  empty.  There  was  long  delay,  but 
the  cries  kept  up.  Finally,  the  scene-painter  appeared, 
half  dragging  a  reluctant  figure  from  the  first  entrance. 
It  was  Tom.  The  older  man  bowed  but  waved  his 
hand  in  acknowledgment  to  Tom,  as  if  asking  the  audi 
ence  to  include  him  in  the  praise  of  their  applause. 

Dan,  in  the  gallery,  seeing  this  with  bulging  eyes, 
suddenly  sprang  to  his  feet  and  emitted  one  short,  sharp, 
piercing  yell,  which  stopped  all  other  noises  in  the 
theatre,  but  for  an  instant  only.  Dan  was — luck  go 
with  him,  is — an  American.  He  can  prove  it  by  docu 
ments,  but  that  yell  was  as  Irish  as  the  green  sod  of 
Galway  whence  it  originated.  He  was  standing  up  in 
the  front  row  of  the  gallery  with  his  old-fashioned  silk 
hat  held  aloft,  for  once  all  his  caution  and  conservatism 
shaken  out  of  him.  The  whole  audience  turned  to  look 
at  the  man  with  the  close-cropped  gray  hair  and  the 
smooth  stern  face,  and  so  did  Tom.  Catching  his  boy's 
eye  Dan,  with  a  quick  jerk  of  his  hat,  again  sent  forth 
that  challenging  and  triumphant  yell,  and  every  Irish 
man  and  son  of  an  Irishman  in  the  theatre — a  solid  lot 
of  men,  the  rulers  of  New  York— dived  a  hand  under  his 
seat  and  the  next  second,  with  defiantly  upheld  silk  hat, 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  answered  the  yell  in  kind.  Then 
there  was  a  roar  of  laughter  in  which  the  yellers  joined, 
until  some  one  sang  out,  pointing  to  the  promoter  of 
all  this  excitement :  "  True  for  you,  Dan  Lyon.  Galway 
forever!"  There  was  another  roar  and  another  cry: 
"The  artist  is  Dan's  boy  Tom,"  and  once  more  Dan, 
now  utterly  lost  to  his  surroundings,  a  perfect  example 


132  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

of  atavism,  an  absolute  reversion  to  the  men  of  his  an 
cestry,  led  the  yell ;  and  the  cheering  and  laughter  kept 
up  until  Tom,  blushing  crimson,  bowed,  broke  away, 
and  made  a  hasty  exit. 

Philip  Peyton  was  in  the  audience — he  should  have 
been  at  Police  Headquarters — and  saw  and  heard  this. 
He  knew  that  the  Guardian  had  not  sent  a  man  to  write 
a  notice  of  the  Tivoli  production,  so  he  went  back  to 
Headquarters,  wrote  a  notice,  sent  it  to  the  night  city- 
editor  with  a  personal  note,  and  the  next  day  Tom 
Lyon's  name  was  mentioned  in  connection  with  "the 
very  artistic  scenic  effects,"  in  a  new  extravaganza  at 
the  Tivoli  on  the  Bowery.  Philip  was  back  at  the 
Tivoli,  his  own  work  done,  in  time  to  catch  Tom  leav 
ing  the  theatre  with  Teresa,  Carminella,  and  Dan;  and 
he  insisted  that  the  party  should  celebrate  the  evening's 
success  with  him  at  the  Arctic  Garden. 

He  was  in  a  gale  of  good  spirits ;  he  took  the  party 
to  a  box  in  the  garden,  ordered  beer  and  frankfurter 
sausages  in  the  most  reckless  manner,  congratulated 
Tom  enthusiastically,  praised  Carminella,  and  joked 
Dan  about  the  yell,  which  he  said  was  the  best  part  of  the 
show.  Carminella  regarded  him  with  big-eyed  wonder, 
and  blushed  when  he  called  her  Miss  Carminella,  for 
she  had  never  been  called  that  before;  liked  him  when 
he  called  her  mother  Mrs.  Cortese,  instead  of  Teresa, 
as  every  one  else  did ;  and  laughed  with  the  others  at 
his  pretended  enjoyment  of  the  performance  on  the 
Garden  stage.  Tom  wanted  to  pay  for  part  of  the  sup 
per,  but  Philip  would  not  let  him.  "  No,  my  young- 
artist  friend,"  he  said  with  much  grandeur,  "do  not  let 
your  success  turn  your  head,  and  make  you  ambitious 
to  share  the  expenses  of  this  Lucullan  feast,  for  you  see 
in  me,  your  host,  a  bloated  capitalist — a  gold-mine 


A  Bowery  Ballet  Dancer's  Debut.  133 

owner.  Yes,  children,  I  speak  not  in  parables  nor  in 
hyperbole.  A  big  brother  of  mine,  Harvard  University 
crew,  1 88-,  is  at  present  engaged  in  the  joyful  occupa 
tion  of  digging  gold  from  the  rocky  fastnesses  of  the 
witching  West.  Not  untold  gold,  perhaps,  but  he  re 
mitted  to  me,  his  silent  partner,  this  day,  per  express, 
charges  prepaia  one  hundred  dollars,  half  of  the  profits 
of  last  month's  'clean-up,'  as  he  drolly  expresses  it." 

Carminella  had  never  seen  or  heard  any  one  like  Philip 
before  in  her  life,  and  in  her  wondering  study  of  him 
forgot,  even,  the  events  of  her  first  night  on  the  stage. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

A  TODDY,  AND   GLAD  TIDINGS. 

PROFESSOR  POLLI'S  prediction  of  Carminella's  advance 
in  the  ranks  of  the  Tivoli  ballet  was  more  than  verified, 
for  she  was  placed  at  the  end  of  the  front  row  before 
the  production  had  run  many  weeks.  It  ran  many 
months  and  made  a  large  profit,  I  am  glad  to  say,  on 
the  seemingly  reckless  expenditure  Mr.  Dean  authorized 
for  it.  I  know,  Mr.  Reformer:  I  know  all  about  Mr. 
Dean  and  the  political  crimes  and  corruptions  he  is 
charged  with,  so  there  is  no  need  of  your  wagging  your 
outraged  head  at  me  about  him.  He  is  the  ruler  of 
that  District;  carries  it  in  his  vest-pocket,  if  you  like; 
is  its  political  dictator,  too,  if  you  please.  I  will  grant 
you  that  he  is  just  as  wicked  as,  with  unceasing  clamor, 
you  accuse  him  of  being;  and  that  in  his  District  his 
will,  not  the  will  of  the  majority,  rules.  Permit  me  to 
shock  you  by  saying  that  that  is  a  fact  for  which  Mr. 
Dean  deserves  your  profound  thanks:  yours  and  every 
other  law-abiding,  property-owning,  tax-paying  citizen 
of  this  ignorance-beset  city.  Do  you  happen  to  know 
what  the  majority  of  that  District  is  like?  What  its 
ideas  of  "  government"  really  are  when  the  ever-cautious 
police  permit  their  expression,  taking  watchful  heed 
those  ideas  are  not  carried  out;  thus  preventing  the 
pillage  and  burning  of  your  peaceful,  diamond-back 
district  homes?  Do  you  happen  to  know  what  is  the 
average  intelligence  of  the  majority  there?  Do  you 

134 


A  Toddy,  and  Glad  Tidings.  135 

happen  to  know  that  Mr.  Dean  is  enabled  to  control 
there  because  the  morals  of  the  majority  are  so  much 
worse  than  its  political  principles — it  would  rather  sell 
its  votes  than  rule?  So  far  as  Mr.  Dean  contributes 
rulers  to  the  general  government  of  the  city,  state, 
nation,  I  prefer  taking  my  chances  of  safety  under  them 
than  under  such  as  that  District  would  contribute  by  the 
free  and  untrammelled  rule  of  the  majority,  my  dear 
Mr.  Reformer.  Teach  that  majority  what  American 
institutions  are,  before  you  demand  that  it  shall  have  a 
free  hand  in  their  conduct. 

But  there!  may  I  never  lose  another  enemy  if  I  again 
break  my  promise  not  to  introduce  the  subject  of  politics. 

I  was  remarking  that  the  famous  production  in  which 
Carminella  made  her  first  appearance  had  a  long  run. 
In  fact,  there  was  no  announcement  of  the  "closing 
weeks"  until  preparations  were  begun  for  the  Holiday 
spectacle.  The  house  ballet-master  urged  Teresa — ever- 
faithful,  ever-watchful,  ever-cautious  Teresa! — to  allow 
Carminella  to  dance  a  solo,  or  "do  a  specialty,"  as  he 
called  it,  before  the  new  piece  was  put  on.  But  Teresa 
said  "  No."  There  was  danger  in  pushing  the  girl  too 
fast;  in  depriving  her  of  the  hard  routine  drill  which 
would  make  her  muscles  sturdy  without  diminishing 
their  suppleness,  which  would  give  her  perfect  under 
standing  and  command  of  the  stage  as  a  dancing  plat 
form.  So  during  all  the  hot  months  of  summer,  and 
long  into  the  fall,  Carminella  nightly  made  her  appear 
ance  in  the  palace  of  the  Maharaja  of  Muggy-Poo,  on 
the  deck  of  the  U.  S.  S.  Constance,  and  on  the  beach  of 
the  Island  of  Delight ;  drinking  pasteboard  goblets  of 
champagne  unbrahminically  introduced  into  the  Indian 
palace;  tossing  off  bumpers  of  grog  on  the  deck  of  the 
Constance ;  and  feasting  on  the  tropical  fruits  of  the 


136  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

Island  of  Delight.  Then  she  and  Tom  and  Teresa  would 
leave  the  stage-door  together  and  walk  over  to  the 
Arctic  Garden  and  have  a  real  supper  of  beer  and  sand 
wiches.  Philip  Peyton  would  frequently  join  them  at 
these  suppers,  which  then  would  become  great  larks. 
As  they  were  regular  and  late  patrons,  the  singers  and 
dancers  on  the  Garden  stage  came  to  know  them  and 
would  "play  at  them;"  and  Philip  would  send  glasses 
of  beer  behind  the  stage  to  the  performers,  and  hear  the 
fact  alluded  to  in  the  next  song.  At  that  hour,  between 
eleven  o'clock  and  midnight,  most  of  the  Bowery  sight 
seers  from  up-town  would  be  gone,  and  the  hungry  and 
thirsty  patrons  of  the  place  were  "  natives"  and  many 
of  them  known  to  Tom.  The  table  always  reserved  for 
them  near  the  big  orchestrion  (so  that  Philip  could  ask 
for  their  favorite  selections)  became  the  centre  about 
which  the  young  fellows  Tom  or  Philip  cared  to  intro 
duce  would  gather;  drawing  their  supper  tables  nearer 
and  gossiping  about  their  work  and  interests.  There 
were  some  newspaper  men  Philip  introduced,  who 
somehow  that  summer  acquired  the  custom  of  stopping 
at  the  garden  for  supper  on  the  way  up-town;  some 
bright,  keen-eyed  schoolfellows  of  Tom's,  now  law  or 
medical  students,  some  already  admitted  to  practice, 
but  not  yet  strong  enough  to  fly  out  of  the  native  field. 
Give  them  time,  messieurs,  they  will  be  with  you, 
further  up-town,  later. 

"  I'm  thinking  of  taking  lodgings  down  here  myself," 
Peyton  said  one  evening.  "  It's  only  necessary  to  be 
an  American  and  start  down  here  to  be  a  success. 
Now  I  am  an  American,  but  successful  only  as  a  failure. 
My  night  city-editor  informed  me  this  evening,  with 
tears — which  I  took  to  be  tears  of  delight — streaming 
down  his  pale,  nervous  face,  that  I  had  at  last  turned  in 


BOWERY     ARTISTS. 
14  The  singers  and  dancers  would  '  play  at  them.'  "—Page  136. 


12 


A  Toddy,  and  Glad  Tidings.  137 

a  story  with  every  essential  fact  included  and  all  abso 
lutely  correct.  As  I  rose,  choked  with  emotion,  to 
thank  him,  he  added  that  the  story  I  had  turned  in  hap 
pened  not  to  be  the  story  I  had  been  sent  out  on — another 
man  had  brought  that  in  earlier  in  the  evening,  and  it 
was  then  in  type;  and  would  I  trot  out  again,  dig  up 
my  own  story,  and  kindly  hustle!" 

"Whenever  you're  ready  to  change  lodgings  just  let 
me  know,"  said  Tom,  "for  I'm  beginning  to  feel  as  if  I 
belonged  in  a  Guardian  man's  rooms.  Your  art  depart 
ment  is  sending  me  something  to  do  nearly  every  day 
now.  I  am  to  have  a  four-column  illustration  in  next 
Sunday,  and  I  am  to  sign  it,  too,  if  you  please,  so  I'm 
thinking  about  looking  for  apartments  up  your  way." 

Tom  took  from  a  wide,  flat  parcel  on  a  chair  by  his 
side  a  sheet  of  cardboard  on  which  was  a  nearly  finished 
drawing.  "  I've  been  working  on  this  whenever  I  could 
get  a  chance  at  the  theatre,"  Tom  added.  Philip  took 
it  and  asked:  "Is  this  the  one  you're  to  sign  for  the 
Sunday  Guardian?"  When  Tom  said  it  was,  Philip  im 
pudently  took  from  his  pocket  one  of  those  perpetually 
inked  pens,  and  wrote  in  the  corner  of  the  sketch :  "  T. 
Fitz  Gerald  Lyon."  When  Tom  saw  this  he  exclaimed 
indignantly,  "  Now  wouldn't  I  look  nice  with  my  name 
parted  in  the  middle  like  that!" 

"You  take  my  advice,  my  son,"  Philip  said,  with 
much  gravity:  "The  signature,  'T.  Fitz  Gerald  Lyon,' 
will  prompt  a  hundred  people  to  inquire  about  the  artist, 
yes,  and  to  commend  the  art,  where  five  would  take 
notice  of  'T.  F.  Lyon's'  feeble  efforts  to  please  the  eye." 

Tom  only  laughed  at  this,  but  he  did  not  change  the 
signature,  and  that,  if  you  care  to  know,  is  the  way  the 
precise  form  of  Lyon's  signature,  with  which  we  are  all 
so  familiar  now,  was  invented. 


138  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

"  Oh,  you're  not  the  only  one  who  has  successes, "  said 
Carminella,  teasing  Tom  a  little:  "what  do  you  say  to 
my  going  into  a  Broadway-theatre  ballet  which  Profes 
sor  Polli  is  to  rehearse?" 

Both  men  answered  exactly  together:  "I  say,  no!" 
said  Tom,  and  he  really  looked  a  little  bit  anxious. 

"  I  say,  good !"  Philip  exclaimed,  but  he  had  not 
changed  from  his  bantering  mood. 

"  I  only  didn't  want  you  to  have  all  the  glory,"  Car 
minella  said,  "  or  I  would  not  have  told,  for  I  am  not 
going." 

Both  the  men  looked  so  inquiringly  at  Teresa,  who 
they  knew,  of  course,  would  make  the  decision,  that  she 
answered:  "Carminella  will  dance  a  solo  at  the  next 
piece  at  the  Tivoli.  Better  for  her  to  stay  there  until 
she  goes  to  Broadway  as  a  soloist  or  specialist." 

"You  are  right,  Mrs.  Cortese,"  said  Philip.  "Miss 
Carminella  will  come  to  Broadway  as  much  a  stranger, 
coming  from  the  Bowery,  as  from  Vienna;  so  she  had 
better  wait  until  she  can  come  with  a  press  agent,  litho 
graphs,  stories  of  stolen  diamonds,  a  French  maid,  and 
an  English  fox-terrier." 

Carminella  laughed  as  Philip  ran  on  in  this  way,  but 
Tom,  somehow,  did  not  seem  to  find  as  much  simple  fun 
in  that  Bohemian  evening  as  in  others.  Perhaps  his 
drawing  had  been  passed  over  too  lightly;  perhaps  the 
party  had  not  taken  seriously  enough  his  announcement 
of  the  fact  which  had  made  his  blood  tingle  all  day, 
that  his  name  was  to  be  signed  to  his  work  in  the  col 
umns  of  the  great  Guardian.  Perhaps,  too,  Tom  could 
not  regard  with  great  satisfaction  the  prospect  of  Car 
minella  leaving  the  Tivoli,  which  would  mean  her  leav 
ing  the  Bend.  Then  he  would  see  her  neither  at  work 
nor  at  home.  I  guess  that  was  the  cause  of  his  very 


A  Toddy,  and  Glad  Tidings.  139 

unusual  depression.  The  fact  is  that  in  the  last  year 
or  so  there  had  been  a  check  to  Tom's  growing  impa 
tience  with  his  father's  loyalty  to  their  old  home.  He 
did  not  know  the  particulars  of  his  father's  worldly 
affairs;  but  he  was  not  ignorant  of  the  general  belief 
that  Dan's  long  and  patient  industry  and  thrift,  and  the 
real  liking  some  of  the  business  men  in  the  Niantic 
building  had  for  him,  who  would  be  likely  to  advise 
him  wisely  in  the  investment  of  his  savings,  had  resulted 
in  the  old  man  acquiring  enough  of  this  world's  goods 
to  make  it  possible  and  proper  that  they  should  permit 
themselves  a  better  manner  of  living.  Tom,  I  say,  had 
chafed  under  his  father's  insistance  upon  remaining  in 
the  Bend  under  these  circumstences  until  the  last  year 
or  so,  during  which  Carminella  had  grown  to  a  more 
companionable  age.  Since  she  had  begun  to  work  at 
the  Tivoli  they  had  been  much  together.  They  had 
gone  out  together  in  the  mornings  for  long  walks  in  the 
beautiful  parts  of  the  city  on  pleasant  days,  or  Carmi 
nella  had  posed  for  Tom  when  he  wanted  a  woman's 
figure  in  a  drawing  for  the  Guardian.  During  this  time 
he  had  been  perfectly  contented  with  the  Bend  as  a 
home. 

That  evening,  as  Tom,  Teresa,  and  Carminella  parted 
at  the  entrance  of  the  Garden  from  Philip,  who  was 
going  up-town  with  some  companions,  and  they  started 
to  walk  down  the  Bowery,  Teresa  said  to  him : 

"We  are  not  going  to  leave  the  Tivoli  yet,  Tom,  but 
we  are  going  to  leave  the  tenement." 

"  Leave  the  tenement?"  repeated  Tom,  his  heart 
sinking. 

"  Has  not  your  father  told  you?"  asked  Teresa,  with 
surprise.  "  Then  I  should  not  have  told  you." 

Tom  found  his  father  waiting  up  for  him.     This  was 


140  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

an  unusual  occurrence,  for,  except  when  political  duties 
interfered,  Dan's  bed-time  was  nine  o'clock. 

There  was  a  sly,  pleased  look  on  the  old  man's  face 
as  he  watched  his  tall,  handsome  boy  throw  off  his  coat 
and  vest;  fill  his  beloved  pipe  of  the  Art  League  days, 
and  sink  into  a  chair,  pulling  his  rather  long,  reddish  hair 
over  his  forehead ;  the  picture  of  a  very  dejected  young 
man,  and  therefore  looking  very  unlike  Tom  Lyon. 

"What's  this  you  have  in  the  paper,  Tom?"  asked  his 
father,  pointing  to  the  package  Tom  had  thrown  on  the 
lamp-table. 

"  Some  drawings,"  answered  Tom ;  "  this  one  is  going 
into  the  Guardian  on  Sunday." 

"And  what's  this  I  see,"  said  Dan,  putting  on  his 
spectacles  to  examine  the  signature.  "  Sure  that's  a 
stylish  way  of  writing  your  name.  Your  mother  was  a 
Fitz  Gerald,  and  none  better  ever  came  over.  What 
struck  you  to  write  your  name  all  out  like  that?" 

"I  didn't  write  it,  dad;  Mr.  Peyton  did." 

"Mr.  Peyton,  eh?  I'm  proud  of  your  having  fine 
friends  like  that,  Tom;  I'm  thinking  sometimes  that 
you'll  be  ashamed  of  the  old  home  you  stay  in  for  your 
dad's  sake."  As  Dan  said  this  he  lighted  his  own  pipe, 
and  walked  around  behind  Tom,  and  he  was  smiling 
with  great  satisfaction  as  he  smoked. 

"Well,  dad,"  said  Tom,  holding  up  a  drawing,  squint 
ing  at  it,  and  blocking  out  a  portion  of  it  from  his  sight 
with  an  intercepting  thumb,  "it  doesn't  do  me  any 
harm  at  the  Tivoli  to  be  known  to  be  living  in  Mul 
berry  Bend;  but  if  I  should  take  a  studio, — that's  a  sort 
of  an  office  to  do  my  work  in,  you  know, — and  give  up 
scene-painting  and  try  to  make  a  living  as  an  artist,  I 
don't  suppose  it  would  help  me  to  get  buyers  to  have  it 
known  that  I  live  down  here." 


A  Toddy,  and  Glad  Tidings.  141 

Dan's  smile  faded  for  a  moment.  Perhaps  he  had 
hoped  for  an  expression  of  ready  willingness  on  Tom's 
part  to  remain  in  the  Bend  as  long  as  his  father  thought 
best,  but  the  old  man's  smile  of  satisfaction  returned 
when  Tom  added,  after  a  few  vigorous  puffs :  "  But  if 
you're  stuck  on  staying  here,  dad,  till  the  city  clears 
these  rattle-traps  out  to  make  a  park  of  the  Bend,  why 
of  course  I  ain't  going  back  on  you.  What's  good 
enough  for  the  old  man  ought  to  be  good  enough  for  the 
kid,  I  guess!" 

Tom  shook  himself,  gave  one  of  his  natural,  jolly 
laughs,  jumped  up  from  his  chair,  squared  off  at  his 
father,  pretended  to  aim  a  death-dealing  blow  at  him, 
tapped  him  lightly  on  the  cheek  and  added,  "  Especially 
when  he's  been  as  square  an  old  man  as  you  have  been 
to  me.  Take  that,  and  that,"  and  he  tapped  Dan  twice 
more.  Dan  countered  the  last  blow,  struck  Tom  on  the 
chest,  and,  as  his  son  sank  into  a  chair,  pretending  to 
be  knocked  down,  Dan  took  a  seat  opposite  and  said : 

"  Have  your  manners  about  you,  T.  Fitz  Gerald  Lyon, 
or  I'll  show  you  the  way  the  Ridge-street  boys  used  to 
lick  the  Cherry-hill  gang.  Now  as  I'm  having  a  long 
story  to  tell  you,  before  I  begin  fetch  what  you  find  in 
the  cupboard,  on  the  bottom  shelf." 

Tom  found  there  a  bottle  of  whiskey,  which  he  had 
expected,  for  Dan  took  a  glass  of  whiskey  and  water,  and 
only  one,  every  night  of  his  life.  What  was  unexpected 
there  was  a  pitcher  of  ice-water,  some  lemons,  and  a 
bag  of  lump  sugar.  They  were  all  strangers ;  as  strange 
in  frugal  Dan's  cupboard  as  in  any  other  in  that  tene 
ment. 

"Bring  them  here,  Tom,  and  I'll  show  you  the  right 
way  to  mix  a  toddy,"  said  Dan.  "It's  fifteen  years 
since  I  treated  myself  to  one,  but  we'll  finish  that  bot- 


142  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

tie  to-night,  my  boy.  A  glass  of  plain  whiskey  and 
water  has  been  my  daily  allowance  for  fifteen  years. " 

"Why,  dad,  what's  the  matter?"  exclaimed  Tom;  for 
he  suddenly  discovered  that  his  father's  smiling  lips 
were  trembling  and  his  eyes  were  filled. 

The  old  man  did  not  answer  by  word,  but  reached 
over  to  the  bed  for  his  coat,  and  drew  from  an  inside 
pocket  a  long  envelope  from  which  he  took  a  document 
and  gave  it  to  his  son.  Tom  opened  it  wonderingly, 
looked  at  it  long  and  hard,  and  then  laid  it  down,  saying  : 

"  It's  all  Greek  to  me,  dad,  except  that  it's  a  deed  to 
something,  and  that  it  is  in  your  name." 

Dan  told  his  story  with  a  hundred  explanations  which 
were,  natural!)',  of  the  liveliest  interest  to  Tom,  but 
might  not  all  be  to  my  readers,  so  I  will  make  of  it  a 
briefer  tale: 

Fifteen  years  before,  Dan  Lyon  had  accumulated  and 
placed  on  deposit  in  a  savings  bank  $1,000.  He  went 
to  the  oldest  tenant  of  the  Niantic  building,  to  Mr. 
Fordham,  the  lawyer,  who  has  been  referred  to  as  de 
clining  to  substitute  the  typewriter  for  the  quill  pen  in 
his  office  business,  and  asked  him  if  he  could  invest  his 
money  in  any  better  way  than  leaving  it  on  deposit. 
The  lawyer  liked  Dan;  they  had  grown  up  together  in 
the  building  since  the  lawyer  had  left  his  college,  one  to 
wealth  and  position,  the  other  to  the  respect  of  all  men 
who  knew  him.  There  was  something  alike  in  them, 
in  their  caution  and  conservatism.  With  the  same  start 
in  life  they  would  doubtless  have  attained  much  the 
same  position.  Mr.  Fordham  said  he  would  bear  Dan's 
case  in  mind  and  he  did.  His  own  country  home  was 
in  Long  Island  in  the  hills  north  of  Hempstead  plains. 
It  was  an  ancestral  place  and  Mr.  Fordham  knew  the 


MR.     FORDHAM. 
•The  lawyer  liked  Dan." — Page  142. 


A  Toddy,  and  Glad  Tidings.  143 

country  well  for  miles  around ;  saw  the  gradual  decline 
in  the  value  of  farming  lands  thereabouts,  and  was  one 
of  the  first  to  note  the  indication  of  the  approaching 
fashionable  drift  which  at  last  made  an  "abandoned 
farm"  in  that  neighborhood  so  valuable  that  it  paid 
speculators  to  give  fancy  prices  for  prosperous  farms 
and    then    announce    them    as   "  abandoned" — and    for 
sale!     He  observed  this  tendency  before  it  affected  val 
ues  much,  and  made  an  uncommonly  wise  estimate  of 
the  extent  to  which  it  would  run.     Near  his  own  place 
was  a  pretty  twenty-acre  farm  and  colonial  farm-house 
with  shingle  sides  which  was  for  sale,  not  as  "  aban 
doned,"  for  it  was  good  land  though  out-at-elbows  as  a 
farm,  but   at  a  reasonable  price  at  a  farm   valuation. 
Mr.  Fordham  wanted  the  property  to  add  to  his  own 
and  would  have  bought  it  could  he  have  obtained  an 
intervening  piece  of  land.     He   thought  of   Dan,  had 
him  over  there  one  Sunday  and  showed  him  the  place, 
explained  the  probable  future  of  the  neighborhood,  told 
what  should  be  done  to  the  house  and  land,  and  what 
the  improvements  would  cost,  and  then  told   him   he 
would  secure  the  place  for  him  for  his  $1,000,  and  would 
undertake  to  find  some  one  who  would  "  carry  the  place 
on  a  mortgage  at  terms  which  Dan  could  meet."     That 
was  Mr.  Fordham's  manner  of  concealing  the  fact  that 
he  intended  himself  to  carry  through  this  momentous 
investment   for  Dan.      For  laborious  days  and  nights 
Dan  figured  on  unaccustomed   questions  of  mortgage, 
interest,  cost  of  improvements  on  land  and  buildings, 
on  possible  revenues  from  the  farm  converted  into  an 
orchard  and  vegetable  garden,  and  on  his  own  capacity 
for  saving,  and  then  announced  to  Mr.  Fordham  that  he 
thought  he  could  clear  the  transaction  out,  making  all 
the  payments  and  meeting  the  costs  of  all  the  improve- 


144  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

ments  suggested,  in  fifteen  years!  The  security  was 
perfectly  good,  and,  although  the  interest  rate  Dan  paid 
was  low,  Mr.  Fordham  said  he  thought  "his  client 
would  be  satisfied,"  and  Dan  saw  the  beginning  of  the 
consummation  of  his  life's  ambition.  Once  started,  the 
struggle  proved  easier  than  Dan  had  counted  upon. 
His  services  to  Mr.  Dean  paid  him  twice  what  he  had 
estimated  they  would,  and  for  the  last  five  years  he  had 
practically  had  the  management  as  janitor  of  a  building 
next  to  the  Niantic,  but  he  never  thought  of  changing 
a  condition  of  the  investment  as  it  was  first  planned. 
The  increasing  fashionableness  and  population  of  the 
neighborhood  made  a  better  market  for  the  farm  pro 
ducts,  and  Dan's  income  from  that  source  exceeded  his 
estimate.  There  were  many  times  when  he  had  to 
struggle  hard  not  to  let  Tom  know  of  this  good  fortune, 
but  it  had  always  seemed  to  him  that  nine-tenths  of  the 
glorious  satisfaction  of  telling  Tom  that  he  actually 
owned  a  home  of  his  own  which  would  support  him 
would  be  lacking  if  he  had  to  add  that  it  was  mortgaged. 
So  when  at  last  the  whole  encumbrance  was  paid  off, 
and  this  was  on  the  very  day  Dan  told  him  of  it,  besides 
having  this  wonderful  thing — this  unencumbered  deed 
to  a  home  for  them — Dan  had  money  in  the  bank  where 
with  to  furnish  the  farm-house  as  Tom  might  like. 

"  I  wouldn't  furnish  it,  Tom,  without  you  to  say  how, 
for  Mr.  Fordham  is  telling  me  the  artists  are  doing 
great  tricks  with  those  old  farm-houses;  making  them 
look  like  the  old  days  again  on  the  inside,  he  says,  and 
you'll  have  full  swing  there.  And  now,  my  boy,  when 
your  fine  friends  say,  'Where  are  you  living,  T.  Fitz 
Gerald  Lyon?'  you'll  take  your  time  answering  and  say, 
careless-like,  4Oh,  down  at  me  father's  country  place  in 
Long  Island.  Couldn't  you  run  down  and  spend  a 


A  Toddy,  and  Glad  Tidings.  145 

night  with  us?  The  old  man'll  be  glad  to  see  you,  and 
he  makes  a  fine  toddy.  He's  the  same  Dan  Lyon  that 
worked  in  the  Niantic  building,  boy  and  man,  near 
fifty  years!'  Tell  'em  that,  Tom,  and  your  old  dad  will 
be  waiting  down  there  for  you,  never  going  back  on 
your  promised  welcome,  though  you  bring  a  dozen  of 
your  fine  friends  at  once.  Tell  'em  that,  Tom." 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

THE  EXODUS  FROM  MULBERRY  BEND. 

DAN  LYON  had  considered  Dominico's  affairs  as  well 
as  his  own  in  his  closing  days  at  Mulberry  Bend,  and 
had  talked  them  over  with  Dominico  and  Teresa.  Do 
minico's  business  had  thrived  greatly  of  late,  owing  to 
the  large  patronage  of  the  Tivoli  Theatre ;  and  besides 
this  betterment  of  the  Cortese  fortunes,  Professor  Polli 
had  taught  Carminella  some  solo  dances  which  he  had 
invented  for  her,  or,  more  properly,  had  arranged  to  suit 
her  form  and  stature  and  the  special  directions  in  which 
she  had  shown  the  greatest  facility  in  her  dancing. 
The  new  dances  had  been  rehearsed  on  the  Tivoli  stage 
for  the  finishing  touches,  and  Dominico,  who  had 
watched,  not  the  dancer  but  the  faces  of  the  house  ballet- 
master,  the  stage-manager,  and  Mr.  Dean,  had  stoutly 
held  out  for  a  salary  of  twenty-five  dollars  a  week  for 
Carminella  in  the  new  piece,  and  had  nearly  died  of  joy 
when  he  gained  his  point.  He  would  undoubtedly  have 
died  of  rage  had  he  known  that  he  could  just  as  readily 
have  demanded  and  obtained  fifty  dollars  a  week.  The 
new  piece,  a  Christmas  spectacle,  was  almost  ready 
when  Dan  had  settled  all  his  affairs  with  the  men  in 
the  Bend  for  whom  he  had  been  so  many  years  a  care 
ful  financial  agent;  closed  up  his  political  accounts 
with  Mr.  Dean,  and  installed  his  successor  in  the  Nian- 
tic  building. 

As  Carminella's  increased  wages  would  soon  begin, 

146 


The  Exodus  from  Mulberry  Bend.  147 

Dan  advised  Dominico  to  move  into  a  better  neighbor 
hood  for  her  sake.  To  both  Tom's  and  Teresa's  sur 
prise  Dominico  offered  little  objection  to  this  change, 
which  meant  considerable  addition  to  the  cost  of  their 
living.  That  worthy  and  prosperous  Italian  had  lately 
developed  some  tastes  and  manners  which  might  have 
suggested  to  Dan,  had  he  been  a  judge  in  those  matters, 
that  Dominico's  yearnings  for  a  more  fashionable  life 
would  prompt  him  to  lead,  rather  than  reluctantly  fol 
low,  the  northward  march.  Dominico  had  discarded 
the  shapeless  woollen  cap  of  Mulberry  Bend  for  a  vel 
vet  yachting  cap  of  most  extraordinary  size  and  plethoric 
puffiness;  no  longer  did  he  reserve  his  red  and  yellow 
neck-scarfs  for  Sunday  and  other  fete  days,  but  they 
gladdened  and  rejoiced  his  razor-scraped  neck  seven 
days  in  the  week.  The  earrings  of  Naples  were  made 
to  relinquish  their  accustomed  hold,  but  more  glittering 
than  they  was  the  plated-gold  watch-chain  which  hung 
in  graceful  waves  from  pocket  to  buttonhole  and  from 
buttonhole  to  pocket  of  his  highly  colored  velveteen 
vest.  The  pearl  buttons  on  his  corduroy  coat  grew  in 
size  from  week  to  week  to  the  hilarious  approval  of  the 
Bowery.  The  brogans  he  was  wont  to  wear  no  longer 
covered  his  ample  feet  with  comfort  and  protection,  and 
in  their  stead  he  stood  in  glorious"  anguish  in  a  pair  of 
tight  and  high-heeled  boots.  He  loved,  on  warm  sum 
mer  and  fall  evenings,  standing  beneath  the  electric 
light  in  front  of  the  Tivoli  Theatre  with  naught  of  his 
refulgence  concealed,  to  discourse  with  his  customers 
on  subjects  pertaining  to  the  stage  and  of  his  daughter's 
success.  He  was  a  very  butterfly  of  fashion,  and  when 
it  was  proposed  that  their  increased  incomes  warranted 
a  move  into  fields  where  his  bright  colors  would  be 
more  in  harmony  with  his  surroundings  than  in  the 


148  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

back  tenement  of  Mulberry  Bend,  Dominico  exclaimed 
with  enthusiasm :  "  Are  we  pigs  to  always  live  in  this 
sty?  No,  let  Riccodonna  and  his  kind,  whose  daugh 
ters  could  earn  but  two  or  three  dollars  a  week  sewing 
at  the  machine  from  daylight  to  dark,  stay  there  and 
rot."  Had  not  he,  Dominico  Cortese,  an  honest  man  if 
ever  one  came  from  Italy,  begged  the  stupid  thief,  Ric 
codonna,  to  keep  his  children  in  the  schools?  Had  he 
not  said,  "  Riccodonna,  friend,  make  your  daughters 
learn  everything  as  I  make  mine  learn.  Beat  them  if 
they  do  not."  "Let  us  go  farther  north,  even  beyond 
Cooper  Union,  and  live  fashionable  lives,  with  a  room 
in  which  to  eat  our  food  separate  from  the  room  in 
which  we  cook.  Let  us  have  the  good  red  wine  of  Italy 
for  fifty  cents  a  gallon,  and  drink  it  when  our  best 
friend,  Dan,  visits  us  from  his  palazzo  on  Long  Island." 

Dan,  indeed,  had  to  modify  the  transports  of  Domi 
nico,  or  that  socially  revolutionized  man  would  have 
placed  no  limit  on  the  delights  and  luxuries  he  prom 
ised  the  family. 

Before  the  new  piece  was  put  on,  Teresa  found  a  flat 
on  Tompkins  Square  into  which  they  moved.  It  had 
four  rooms,  besides  its  own  bath-room,  and  they  paid 
twenty  dollars  a  month.  Dan  made  Teresa  a  present 
of  his  furniture,  which,  with  what  they  had,  and  a  car 
pet  and  a  curtain  for  Carminella's  room,  a  present  from 
Tom,  set  them  up  in  housekeeping  in  such  fashionable 
style  that  Dominico  wept  that  Riccodonna  could  not 
see. 

But  in  the  enthusiasm  Dominico  felt  and  imparted 
in  some  degree  to  Teresa,  Carminella,  and  Dan,  one  of 
the  party,  Tom,  did  not  share.  He  was  going  to  give 
up  his  night-work  at  the  theatre,  when  he  and  his  father 
moved  to  Mulberry  Court,  the  name  Dan  had  given  to 


The  Exodus  from  Mulberry  Bend.  149 

his  Long  Island  home.  He  had  begun  that  night-work, 
as  an  assistant  to  Mr.  Foster,  the  stage-manager,  years 
ago  in  lieu  of  the  morning  hours  he  then  devoted  to 
the  Art  League.  Now  he  would  return  to  his  all-day 
work  on  the  paint-bridge  of  the  theatre,  so  that  he 
could  return  home  for  the  evenings.  He  would  not  see 
Carminella  much,  he  thought,  except  at  rehearsals. 
Near  the  day  for  the  separation,  at  one  of  the  suppers 
they  took  at  the  Garden,  Tom  spoke  of  this  rather  rue 
fully,  and  Carminella  had  said :  "  But  you  will  become 
a  great  artist,  will  have  your  own  studio,  and  then  you 
will  not  be  at  the  Tivoli  at  all." 

Poor  Tom  could  not  see  that  the  brightness  in  the 
girl's  eyes  as  she  said  this  was  all  for  pride  and  hope  in 
him.  She,  so  much  more  intuitive  than  he,  though  she 
did  not  divine  all,  saw  that  Tom  was  in  a  mood  danger 
ous  to  his  prospects,  his  ambition.  Now,  just  as  the 
world  was  opening  before  him  with  a  fair  field  for  his 
talents,  he  seemed  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  to  be 
satisfied  with  things  as  they  were.  She  saw  so  much, 
and  said  what  she  did  to  spur  him  back  into  his  old-time 
restlessness  and  high  ambition.  She  did  not  know,  and 
perhaps  Tom  did  not  wholly  realize,  that  because  Car 
minella  was  so  much  in  his  life  there  he  was  at  last 
content  with  it.  So  he  was  dissatisfied  with  her  that 
she  could  speak  without  regret  of  his  leaving  the  Tivoli 
altogether,  and  was  silent  and  miserable  during  the  rest 
of  the  supper,  although  Philip  was  there  and  kept  the 
others  laughing  at  his  nonsense.  When  they  separated 
Tom  said  he  would  go  home  at  once  to  be  with  his 
father  on  this  last  night  at  the  Bend,  and  Philip  Peyton 
went  away  to  Tompkins  Square  with  Carminella  and 
Teresa.  Tom  turned  his  way;  and  as  he  heard  the 
others  laughing,  waiting  for  a  street  car,  felt  something 
13 


150  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

so  heavy  and  miserable  about  his  heart  he  wondered  what 
he  had  ever  found  in  life  which  could  make  it  seem  gay 
and  bright.  "  Anyway, "  he  thought,  "  it  is  a  great  satis 
faction  if  I  can't  be  as  much  with  Carminella  as  before, 
that  so  good  a  fellow,  and  such  a  good  friend  of  mine, 
as  Philip  Peyton  can  be,"  and  he  turned  and  saw  Philip 
helping  Carminella  into  the  car,  and  she  was  again 
laughing. 

The  new  dances  were  a  success  from  the  first.  Car 
minella  appeared  in  the  second  act  of  the  Holiday  spec 
tacle  as  a  Spanish  gypsy,  dancing  before  a  camp  of 
British  soldiers,  whom  she  charmed  into  forgetfulness 
of  their  duties  while  a  gypsy  prisoner,  her  father,  made 
his  escape  from  the  camp.  Why  he  had  been  made  a 
prisoner,  or  what  he  did  with  the  liberty  she  secured 
for  him,  Carminella  never  discovered,  although  she  was 
a  central  figure  in  the  incident  every  night  for  a  month, 
and,  indeed,  had  a  few  lines  to  speak  of  a  nature  calcu 
lated  to  sooth  the  mind  of  the  commanding  Britisher. 

It  was  discovered  at  once  that  a  dramatic  motive  for 
her  work,  a  cause  for  her  appearance  in  the  scene,  added 
something  to  the  brilliancy  of  Carminella's  manner, 
and  a  spirit  to  the  poetry  of  her  movements  in  the  gypsy 
dance,  and  Mr.  Foster  at  once  set  to  work  to  have  a  dra 
matic  introduction  written  in  for  her  second  dance,  in 
which  she  appeared  as  an  Egyptian  slave ;  the  British 
Army  having  moved  to  Cairo  in  the  entr'acte.  In  each 
character  Carminella  spoke  her  few  lines  in  a  thrillingly 
sweet  contralto  voice,  and  in  such  English  accent  as 
Bowery  theatre-goers  had  not  listened  to  since  the  days 
when  the  great  stars  of  their  profession  shone  on  the 
stage  of  the  old  Bowery,  where  the  Hebrews  swarm 
now  to  hear  the  drama  in  their  vernacular.  In  every 
piece  produced  at  the  Tivoli  that  winter  there  was  a 


A    WAIF. 
"Forced  to  appear  on  the  streets."— Page  151. 


The  Exodus  from  Mulberry  Bend.  151 

speaking  part  of  a  few  lines  written  in  as  a  medium  for 
the  introduction  of  Carminella  in  some  character  in 
which  she  could  dance.  Mr.  Foster  refrained,  as  long 
as  his  shrewd  business  sense  permitted  him,  from  making 
a  "feature,"  as  it  is  called,  of  Carminella's  dancing. 
Not  that  he  apprehended  a  visitation  from  the  agent  of 
the  Society  which  is  overcome  with  such  spasms  of 
horror  if  a  young  woman  under  sixteen  years  of  age 
appears  on  the  stage,  while  fifty  thousand  children  of 
much  less  than  that  age  are  prevented  from  appearing 
in  the  public  schools  for  lack  of  school  accommodation, 
and  are  thereby  forced  to  appear  on  the  streets  or  in  the 
shops  or  sweaters'  dens.  There  was  no  danger  of  such 
a  visitation,  for  any  one  would  readily  accept  without 
question  the  assertion  that  Carminella  was  eighteen. 
That  was  not  why  Mr.  Foster  hesitated ;  it  was  to  pre 
vent  a  dreaded  ebullition  of  Dominico's  expensive  pas 
sion  for  more  salary.  Partly  for  this  reason,  and  partly 
not  to  attract  the  attention  of  Broadway  theatre-mana 
gers,  as  little  as  possible  was  publicly  made  of  Carmi 
nella's  success.  But  when  it  became  manifest  beyond 
possibility  of  denial  that  Carminella  was  a  great  draw 
ing  attraction  at  the  Tivoli,  all  of  her  new  dances  were 
promptly  advertised  in  newspapers  and  show-bills,  and 
the  relentless  and  exuberant  Dominico  was  not  satisfied 
until  he  had  at  last  secured  a  contract  by  which  Car 
minella  was  paid  sixty  dollars  a  week !  Twice  as  much 
in  a  single  night  as  he,  honest  Dominico,  had  earned 
by  a  week's  hard  work,  many  and  many  a  week!  On 
the  day  the  contract  was  signed  Dominico  invested  in  a 
paste-diamond  pin  of  astounding  size  and  dazzling 
brilliancy,  and  so  startling  bright  became  his  neck- 
scarfs,  his  raw-red  throat  paled  by  contrast.  When 
that  contract  was  signed  (it  engaged  Carminella  until 


152  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

the  following  fall),  Mr.  Dean  and  Mr.  Foster,  left  alone, 
heaved  sighs  of  relief  together.  "  The  girl  is  worth 
a  hundred  dollars  a  week  to  any  Broadway  house  that 
could  use  her  work,"  said  Mr.  Foster. 

"  Yes,  and  most  of  them  are  running  to  that  kind  of 
work,  too,"  Mr.  Dean  added. 

But  as  little  as  Broadway  knows  of  the  Bowery,  which 
is  as  little,  generally,  as  the  Bowery  cares  for  Broad 
way,  the  fame  of  the  wonderfully  beautiful  girl  who 
was  making  another  fortune  for  Charles  Dean  by  her 
character  dances  at  the  Tivoli  spread  to  the  haunts  of 
those  who,  soon  wearing  out  the  entertainment  offered 
by  the  up-town  theatres,  are  ever  alert  for  the  novel 
ties  which  are  offered  to  the  east,  the  west,  the  south, 
yes,  even  to  the  north  of  the  zigzag  path  which  Broad 
way  cuts  through  their  accustomed  part  of  this  Island 
of  Manhattan.  And  among  the  men  who  welcomed  the 
news  that  there  was  "something  worth  seeing  at  the 
Tivoli"  was  Mr.  Mark  Waters. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

A  TENDERLOIN  DISTRICT  BOX-PARTY. 

"I'LL  send  for  a  box,  and  we'll  take  in  that  Tivoli 
show,"  Waters  said  to  a  party  of  his  friends  who  were 
discussing  the  news  of  the  attraction  which  some  ad 
venturous  rounders  had  reported  from  the  Bowery.  In 
his  box  party,  the  night  they  appeared  in  evening  dress 
at  the  Tivoli,  were  two  pale,  smooth-faced,  loose-shoul 
dered  young  men,  who  looked  so  bored  it  seemed  a  pity 
they  were  compelled  to  endure  the  flatness  of  this  life 
another  minute.  They  were  two  friends  of  whom 
Waters  was  so  proud  he  visibly  swelled  and  puffed 
whenever  he  was  seen  in  their  company.  One  was  the 
son  of  a  Western  millionaire,  who  was  gratifying  his 
own  ambition  and  breaking  a  simple  mother's  heart  by 
the  frequency  with  which  his  name  figured  in  sensa 
tional  incidents  which  aided,  during  his  career  there, 
to  give  characteristic  color  to  life  in  that  section  of  our 
beloved  but  sometimes  unfortunate  city  known  as  the 
"Tenderloin:"  a  section  wherein,  by  some  strange 
meeting  of  social  tides  and  currents,  a  whirlpool  is 
formed  which,  for  once,  commingles  the  scum  and 
dregs,  the  froth  and  sediment,  that  which  glitters  and 
the  debris  from  which  it  has  once  been  separated ;  as  a 
mountain  torrent  sometimes  sweeps  through  the  miner's 
sluice-boxes,  a  wild  and  muddy  stream  scouring  up 
from  the  bottom  the  separated  gold,  adding  it  again  to 
the  earth  from  which  it  has  been  washed,  pouring  all 


154  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

into  a  seething  pool  with  bruising  boulders,  tossing 
tree-trunks,  with  slime  and  gravel  and  wreckage  of 
carefully  constructed  works  meant  for  the  separation 
and  refining  of  the  gold  from  the  dross;  and  there, 
sometimes  floating  on  the  surface;  sometimes  drawn 
beneath  the  waves,  appear  and  disappear,  stained  and 
rent,  wild-flowers,  torn  from  their  quiet  canon  homes 
by  the  flood  which  has  brought  them  to  this  turbulent 
water  and  there  will  strand  them. 

The  Westerner's  companion  was  a  New  Yorker, 
whose  family  name  has  been  exalted  for  three  genera 
tions  in  an  honored  profession.  His  features  were 
strikingly  handsome,  and  the  hard  mask  his  life  was 
already  imposing  over  his  young  face  as  yet  but  half 
concealed  an  inherited  expression  which,  in  his  father's, 
had  been  pride  of  name  and  place  and  achievement.  In 
him  it  was — what?  An  evidence  of  the  commingled 
precious  metal,  which  in  his  ancestors  had  been  cleared 
of  its  debris,  and  was  now  being  torrent-swept  back  into 
its  native  grime  again? 

Waters'  third  guest  was  an  old  man,  ten  years  Waters' 
senior,  but  in  many  ways  the  youngest-looking  man  in 
the  party.  Although  his  trimmed  and  pointed  mous 
tache  was  nearly  white,  his  complexion  was  an  even, 
pale  red  which,  at  a  little  distance,  looked  like  the  un 
damaged  pink  of  youth.  His  eyes  were  a  little — sur 
prisingly  little — the  worse  for  late  hours  and  tobacco 
and  wine,  and  behind  his  rimless  eye-glasses  yet  seemed 
bright,  especially  as  they  lighted  with  pretended  inter 
est.  There  was  really  nothing  in  the  world  which  in 
terested  him  except  to  affect  an  interest  in  all  things, 
and  this,  and  his  slender  sprightly  figure,  aided  his 
youthful  appearance.  He  was  one  of  those  amazing 
but  picturesque  products  of  the  Tenderloin  made  possi- 


THE     NEW     YORKER. 
'The  younger  men  were  living  that  life  from  choice." — Page  154. 


A  Tenderloin  District  Box-Party.  155 

ble  by  a  physique  which  must  have  been  inherited,  unal 
tered,  from  some  cave-dwelling,  bear-fighting  ancestor. 

The  younger  men  were  living  that  life  from  choice, 
and  they  fraternized  with  Waters  because  they  found 
him  one  of  its  elements.  The  young  New  Yorker  be 
longed  to  some  desirable  clubs,  and  at  such  intervals  as 
their  rules  permitted,  took  Waters  to  them  for  dinner, 
enjoying  in  a  languid  way  the  disapproval  of  his  fellow 
club  members  thereat.  But  he  had  wealth  and  posi 
tion  (at  least  his  family  held  a  position  for  him  which 
he  might  choose  some  day  to  accept),  and  his  taste  in 
club  guests  was  not  too  openly  condemned. 

All  of  Waters'  party  at  the  Tivoli  "  had  money" — a 
status  not  enjoyed  by  many  of  his  customary  compan 
ions — and  he  was  proud  and  happy  in  their  company. 
The  old  man  paid  close  and  apparently  absorbed  atten 
tion  to  the  stage  performance,  applauded  everybody  and 
everything  while  waiting  for  "  La  Cortese's"  appear 
ance;  during  which  time  the  young  men  stared  moodily 
at  the  audience,  and  Waters  followed  their  example, 
copying  their  looks  and  manner  as  nearly  as  possible. 
But  when  from  the  gallery,  where  Italians  were  numer 
ous,  came  cries  of  "La  Cortese!  La  Cortese!"  announc 
ing  Carminella's  appearance,  there  suddenly  ceased  in 
Waters'  box,  as  everywhere  else  in  the  theatre,  any 
pretence  of  indifference. 

Carminella's  first  dance  was  in  the  character  of  a 
French  cantiniere,  in  a  zouave  uniform,  with  a  skirt 
reaching  to  her  leggings,  and  jaunty  scarlet  fez  capping 
her  loose  black  hair.  In  the  story  of  the  play  she  was 
supposed  to  be  practising  a  dance  she  had  learned  from 
native  Algerians,  and,  as  Professor  Polli  had  arranged 
it,  the  cantiniere  found  it  impossible  not  to  interrupt 
the  slower  and  more  sensuous  movements  of  the  Moor- 


156  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

ish,  with  the  livelier  and  to  her  more  familiar  steps  of 
the  Parisian  dances.  Carminella,  using  her  unswung 
canteen  as  a  tambourine,  carried  out  with  artistic  spirit 
the  pretended  fun  and  confusion  of  the  errors  and  mis 
takes  of  her  dance ;  and  the  alternate  applause  of  the 
French  and  Algerian  troops,  as  she  glided  smoothly 
from  the  favorite  dance  of  one  to  the  other,  was  taken 
up  by  the  audience,  until  on  both  sides  of  the  footlights 
there  was  an  uproar  of  cheers  and  "bravas!"  in  the 
highest  tumult  of  which  "  La  Cortese"  broke  from  the 
stage  in  an  instant's  riot  of  the  can-can  a  la  Polli.  In 
response  to  the  roar  of  applause  the  favorite  reappeared, 
bowing,  her  fez  in  one  hand,  her  long  hair  tossing  about 
her  shoulders. 

Waters  leaned  forward  motionless,  his  heavy  lips 
parted  and  trembling,  his  usually  dull  eyes  glaring 
hotly.  The  two  younger  men  were  applauding  with  a 
frank  vigor  of  which  they  would  have  been  ashamed 
had  they  been  conscious,  and  the  old  man,  really  the 
least  affected  of  the  party  but  pretending  to  be  quite 
carried  away  by  artistic  fervor,  was  the  first  to  think  of 
an  appropriate  display  of  enthusiasm.  With  the  ap 
pearance  of  one  acting  from  uncontrollable  impulse  he 
tore  his  boutonniere  from  the  lapel  of  his  coat  and  cast 
it  at  Carminella's  feet.  The  gossip  that  a  party  of 
fashionables  from  up-town  was  in  that  box  had  passed 
from  mouth  to  mouth  behind  the  scenes,  and  Carmi 
nella,  who  had  heard  it,  gave  one  quick,  curious  glance 
at  the  four  standing  men  just  as  the  other  three  followed 
the  old  man's  example.  As  the  flowers  fell  at  her  feet 
Carminella  smiled,  stooped,  picked  up  one,  fastened  it 
by  a  quick  movement  to  her  zouave  jacket,  and  bowed 
herself  from  the  stage  and  into  the  enveloping  cloak 
held  by  Teresa's  outstretched  arms. 


A  Tenderloin  District  Box-Party.  157 

By  chance  the  flower  she  had  picked  up  was  the  one 
Waters  had  worn,  and  as  he  saw  it  fastened  on  her 
breast  he  flushed  heavily  and  his  heart  beat  so  that  it 
hurt  him. 

"Lucky  boy,  Waters!"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  who 
had  noticed  all. 

"I  say,  but  isn't  she  a  howling  beauty!"  the  young 
New  Yorker  said,  and  then  added,  "  We  must  find  out 
where  the  cage  is  that  keeps  that  bird  when  she  is  not 
let  out  on  exhibition.  You  know  Dean,  don't  you 
Waters?  Let's  give  him  a  jolly  and  learn  something 
useful  about  La  Cortese. " 

They  found  Mr.  Dean  in  his  private  office,  and  after 
Waters  had  introduced  his  companions,  and  ordered  a 
bottle  of  champagne  served  to  them  there  from  the  bar 
across  the  lobby,  he  said,  "  That's  a  great  little  woman 
you  have — La  Cortese,  old  man." 

"Not  so  very  little,  either,"  answered  the  proprietor 
of  the  Tivoli,  smiling  calmly. 

"That's  so,"  Waters  said.  "I  was  thinking  of  her 
age,  really.  I  suppose  she  is  not  much  more  than 
nineteen  or  twenty." 

"Not  much  more  than  that,  I  guess,"  Mr.  Dean  said, 
with  sudden  caution. 

He  knew  instantly  and  perfectly  what  his  visitors 
were  there  for,  and  smiled  a  little  to  himself.  The  only 
quick-perceiving  visitor,  the  old  man,  saw  Dean's  access 
of  caution,  and  motioned  the  waiter  to  bring  another 
bottle  of  champagne. 

"They  don't  make  them  as  good  dancers  as  La  Cor 
tese  at  that  age  on  this  side.  I  suppose  she  was  trained 
in  Italy,"  Waters  continued  when  the  second  bottle  had 
been  opened  and  passed. 

"  But  she  was  trained  here,  right  enough,"  Mr.  Dean 


158  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

said.  "  Her  mother  was  in  this  business  before  her,  and 
brought  the  girl  up  to  it.  You  may  remember  (he 
turned  to  the  old  man)  a  troupe  of  burlesquers  who 
made  a  sensation  here,  years  ago,  at  the  Arcady?" 

Waters'  champagne-glass  fell  from  his  hand.  He 
stooped  over,  wiping  the  wine  from  his  trousers,  before 
he  asked,  "  And  was  her  mother  one  of  the  Arcadians? 
It  seems  to  me  I  recall  them." 

"Yes,"  Mr.  Dean  said,  "she  was  one  of  the  squad 
they  nicknamed  'the  Longs.'  La  Cortese  was  a  baby 
then — or  not  much  more." 

"Was  her  mother's  name  Cortese?"  Waters  asked, 
trying  to  appear  unconcerned,  as  he  slowly  filled  a  fresh 
glass. 

"No,"  vsaid  Mr.  Dean,  closely  eying  Waters  from 
half-closed  lids.  "  Her  name  then  was — let's  see — 
what's  this  her  name  was? — oh  yes,  it  was  Teresa  Cesa- 
rotti ;  she  was  married  to " 

"Damnation!" 

This  interruption  was  from  Waters,  who  dropped  or 
threw  the  champagne  bottle  on  the  floor.  His  compan 
ions  regarded  him  in  amazement,  for  he  had  turned 
suddenly  white. 

"  What  the  devil  ails  you,  Waters?"  the  young  New 
Yorker  asked. 

"The  wire  on  that  bottle  cut  my  finger  to  the  bone," 
he  answered.  He  wrapped  a  handkerchief  around  a 
finger  and  swore  some  more  before  he  said :  "  It's  quite 
a  romance.  Where  could  one  call  on  La  Cortese  to  pay 
his  respects?" 

Mr.  Dean  rose  to  greet  some  more  callers  before  he 
answered  over  his  shoulder :  "  We  have  a  rule  not  to 
give  the  address  of  any  one  of  our  people  to  outsiders." 

Waters'  companions  laughed  a  little  at  this.     He  left 


MR.    DEAN. 

"We  have  a  rule,  not  to  give  the  addresses  of  our  people  to  outsiders." 

—Page  158. 


A  Tenderloin  District  Box-Party.  159 

them  soon  after  they  had  returned  up-town.  "  I  believe 
I'll  wake  up  a  doctor  and  have  this  finger  dressed. 
There  may  have  been  rust  on  that  wire,"  he  said,  as  he 
bade  them  good-night. 

"  Waters  seems  to  have  been  hit  hard  by  La  Cortese," 
the  Westerner  said. 

"  Yes,"  the  old  man  commented,  "  by  La  Cortese,  or  La 
Teresa,  or  La  Cesarotti,  or  La  recollection,  or  La  some 
thing.  How  beastly  early  it  is!  It's  too  bad  Waters' 
finger  kept  us  from  seeing  La  Cortese  in  the  last  act." 

Mark  Waters  did  not  go  to  a  doctor's,  although  when 
he  was  alone  he  seemed  suddenly  to  need  a  doctor's 
care.  He  went  at  once  to  his  apartments.  All  his  ac 
quired  swagger  of  bearing  had  departed:  he  shook  as  if 
with  chill ;  he  cast  nervous  glances  up  and  down  the 
street  as  he  turned  into  the  lighted  entrance-way  of  his 
apartment-house ;  he  started  so  that  he  cursed  himself 
when  the  hall-boy  called  to  him  and  directed  his  atten 
tion  to  his  letters  in  his  lock-box;  and  when  he  reached 
his  room  and  looked  in  his  glass  he  met  a  frightened 
gray  face  at  which  he  glared  as  if  at  a  stranger. 

"Teresa  Cesarotti  of  the  Arcadians!  An  infant 
daughter!"  he  said  to  the  gray  stranger,  as  if  repeating 
something  burned  into  his  memory. 

"Teresa  Cesarotti,  a  ballet  woman,  and  of  the  Arca 
dians.  If  it  is  really  the  one  I  am " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence  to  the  gray  stranger, 
but  turned  and  rang  for  a  messenger. 

"Hurry,"  he  said  to  the  messenger.  "There  is 
nearly  an  hour  of  the  performance  left.  Go  into  the 
theatre  and  see  the  dancer  called  La  Cortese.  She  will 
be  on  in  the  last  act.  Watch  her  close  so  you  will  re 
cognize  her  in  her  street  dress.  Follow  her  home  and 
bring  me  her  address." 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

A    BRIEF    VISIT    IN     UTOPIA. 

WHEN  George  Peyton  made  his  "  Articles  of  Agree 
ment"  with  his  brother  Philip,  took  the  family  fortune 
of  $1,000,  and  said  good-by  to  Minnie  Hazelhurst,  he 
went,  as  has  been  said,  to  San  Francisco.  He  had 
many  letters  of  introduction,  but  presented  only  one,  to 
a  merchant  who  had  been  the  San  Francisco  agent  of 
George's  father  in  his  North  Pacific  whaling  interests 
for  many  years.  This  merchant  had  visited  New  York 
occasionally  and  been  entertained  by  the  elder  Peyton, 
and  although  neither  of  the  sons  had  happened  to  meet 
him  they  knew  that  their  father  had  liked  the  Califor- 
nian  both  personally  and  as  a  commercial  associate. 
When  George  went  to  the  offices  of  Horace  Masters,  the 
Californian,  and  sent  in  his  card  and  letter,  a  young 
man,  only  a  few  years  his  senior,  briskly  followed  the 
messenger  out  from  an  inner  office,  extended  his  hand 
to  George,  and  said  with  hearty  cordiality,  "  Your  letter 
is  addressed  to  my  father,.  Mr.  Peyton.  He  is  out  of 
the  city,  but  a  letter  introducing  you  belongs  to  me  as 
much  as  to  him.  My  name  is  Horace  Masters,  also, 
and  I  am  my  father's  partner  in  this  business.  It's 
nearly  lunch-time,  isn't  it?  Now  we'll  go  up  to  the 
club  to  lunch  and  decide  there  on  what  we  want  to  do 
this  afternoon  and  to-night.  Where's  your  baggage? 
Palace,  eh?  Well,  we'll  just  stop  in  at  the  Palace  and 
have  your  stuff  sent  up  to  the  house.  Frank  (to  a 

1 60 


A  Brief  Visit  in  Utopia.  161 

clerk),  I'm  going  out  to  lunch.  I  may  not  be  back  to. 
day.  Come  on,  Mr.  Peyton:  we'll  take  a  cable  car  to 
the  Palace,  first." 

This  was  Peyton's  introduction  to  San  Francisco  hos 
pitality.  He  had  expected  to  be  asked  what  his  engage 
ments  would  be  after  a  week,  and  then  to  receive  an 
invitation  to  dinner,  and  be  put  up  at  a  club,  there  to 
find  his  own  way  about,  as  he  knew  would  be  the  pro 
gramme  under  similar  circumstances  in  New  York. 
The  junior  Masters  dropped  his  work  on  the  instant  and 
was  the  New  Yorker's  almost  constant  companion,  as 
well  as  his  host,  during  the  week  Peyton  was  in  the 
city.  Of  course,  the  young  merchant  had  his  father's 
social  obligations  to  pay  off  in  his  entertainment  of 
Peyton,  but  the  latter  saw  enough  of  the  general  scheme 
of  such  things  in  San  Francisco  to  realize  that  he  would 
have  been  almost  as  heartily  and  spontaneously  enter 
tained  had  he  not  appeared  as  a  social  creditor.  San 
Franciscans  are  pleasure-loving  for  pleasure's  sake;  not 
for  the  sake  of  its  display.  They  constitute  one  Amer 
ican  community  where  work  waits  on  play;  where 
business  has  not  yet  become  the  driver  and  the 
business  man  the  slave.  Young  Masters  would  hear 
of  no  excuse  about  the  transfer  of  the  baggage.  "  My 
father  would  dissolve  our  partnership,"  he  said,  "if 
he  returned  to  the  city  and  found  that  I  had  left  you 
at  a  hotel." 

They  lunched  at  the  Utopian  Club,  where  Peyton  was 
made  to  feel  every  time  he  was  introduced  to  a  new 
acquaintance  that  he  was  meeting  a  man  whose  cup  of 
happiness  lacked  only  that  introduction  to  be  filled  to 
overflowing.  Each  meeting  was  the  excuse  for  the  sug 
gestion  of  "  a  little  cocktail,"  and,  although  they  seemed 
to  be  of  maximum  size  they  were  potent  of  only  the 


162  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

minimum  of  effect.  "  It's  the  climate,"  explained  Mas 
ters  when  Peyton  spoke  of  this. 

After  a  very  leisurely  lunch,  and  none  of  the  scores 
of  lunchers  seemed  to  be  in  the  slightest  hurry  about 
anything,  they  drove  out  through  the  beautiful  Golden 
Gate  Park  in  a  skeleton-buggy  behind  a  pair  of  long- 
tailed  trotters  (they  have  degenerated  into  docking  tails, 
alas!  even  out  there  since  then),  bred  on  the  stock  farm 
of  a  millionaire  experimenter  in  horse-flesh,  who  dis 
covered  the  advantage  to  blood  stock  of  a  proper  infu 
sion  of  thoroughbred.  When  the  shore  of  the  Pacific 
Ocean  was  reached  and  the  anxious,  ambitious  horses 
were  turned  down  that  wonderful  stretch  of  beach, 
Masters  passed  the  reins  over  to  Peyton,  saying: 
"  Speed  them  a  mile."  The  New  Yorker  took  the  reins 
with  a  thrill  of  pleasure.  Nature  has  made  a  three- 
mile  speed-track  there  the  work  of  man  can  never 
equal.  A  level,  springy,  noiseless  road  of  ocean 
sand  which  the  tide  with  tireless  patience  keeps 
ever  cool  and  dustless  and  as  smooth  as  a  breadth 
of  tightened  velvet.  At  the  horses'  feet,  to  the  right 
combed  the  lazy  breakers  of  the  Pacific,  stretching 
beyond  in  limitless  blue  beneath  the  no  deeper  blue 
of  the  unsullied  sky:  to  the  left,  a  billowy  ocean  of 
blonde  sand,  resisting  with  restless  shifting  man's 
effort  to  conquer  it  for  the  established  gardens  of 
the  park.  The  trotters,  recognizing  at  once  the  con 
trolling  touch  of  a  more  experienced  hand,  sped  with 
willing,  rhythmic,  rangy  strides  down  the  sweep  of 
suavely  curving  shore  to  where  a  deserted  old  road 
side  house  marked  the  turning  for  another  route 
back  to  the  city. 

"I  never  rode  behind  a  team  driven  like  that,"  said 
the  Californian,  as  he  took  the  reins  Peyton  passed  back 


A  Brief  Visit  in  Utopia.  163 

to  him  at  the  turning.  "  You  deserve  your  reputation 
as  a  skilful  whip." 

"  Any  one  could  drive  such  horses  on  such  a  track, " 
Peyton  responded.  "  But  why,  tell  me,  in  heaven's 
name,  were  we  the  only  drivers  on  that  magnificent 
beach?  I  should  think  all  San  Francisco  would  be 
driving  there.  I  have  never  seen  or  heard  of  anything 
like  it." 

"  It  would  be  hard  to  tell,"  Masters  answered.  "We 
pretend  that  the  reason  so  little  good  driving  stock  is 
owned  in  San  Francisco  is  because  of  the  wretched  pave 
ments  and  steep  hills  of  the  city.  But  I  guess  if  all  our 
streets  were  like  that  beach  we  would  not  drive  much. 
There  are  plenty  of  men  in  the  city  who  could  afford  to 
keep  stables  filled  with  the  stock  our  breeders  have  to 
send  East  to  sell,  but  they  care  for  more  leisurely  pleas 
ures:  driving  is  too  much  like  work  to  be  a  popular 
recreation  here.  I  seldom  take  this  team  out.  It  will 
be  a  favor  to  me  if  you  will  use  the  turnout  as  your  own 
while  you  are  here. " 

That  evening  they  went  to  the  Utopian  Club  to  dine. 
While  they  were  in  the  cafe  Masters  was  called  aside 
by  a  member,  and  returned  with  an  invitation  to  Pey 
ton  to  join  a  party  at  dinner  in  a  private  dining-room. 
"  The  party  forms  a  sort  of  dining-club,  of  which  I  am 
a  member,  and  a  vacancy  at  the  last  moment  makes  a 
place  for  you,"  Masters  explained. 

Before  they  went  in  to  dinner  the  Utopians  donned  red 
silk  robes,  one  of  which  was  given  to  Peyton.  Twenty- 
one  of  them  sat  at  a  round  table,  spread  in  red,  lighted 
by  red-shaded  candles,  in  a  room  whose  color  scheme  in 
decoration  was  red,  and  only  the  red  wine  of  the  coun 
try  was  served  at  the  meal.  Peyton  examined  his  com 
panions  with  liveliest  interest.  In  age  they  were  from 


164  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

an  eager-faced  youngster  fresh  from  college,  to  a  white- 
haired  patriarch  past  his  three  score  and  ten  ;  in  worldly 
place,  Masters  explained,  from  a  junior  bank  clerk  to 
the  millionaire  president  of  his  bank ;  in  professional 
career,  from  a  law  clerk  to  a  judge  of  a  United  States 
Court;  in  the  social  scale,  from  a  young  artist  unknown 
as  yet  outside  Utopia  to  a  "  Nob  Hill"  dweller  whose 
family  supplied  the  leaders  of  the  city's  smartest  soci 
ety.  The  amount  of  the  clean,  pure,  wholesome  native 
red  wine  they  all  drank  was  amazing.  This  was  drunk 
from  water-goblets.  A  quart  was  placed  at  each  plate 
at  the  beginning;  a  second  appeared  at  most  of  the 
plates  with  the  roast.  As  his  eyes  wandered  about  the 
table  Peyton  felt  them  arrested  again  and  again  by  the 
cheerful  glance  of  a  man  opposite,  whom  he  heard  the 
others  call  Langle.  At  each  glance  Langle  smiled  as 
if  he  and  Peyton  were  the  possessors  in  common  of  some 
happy  secret  which  would  surely  promote  the  gayety  of 
nations  and  make  even  Utopia  more  blest.  Peyton 
found  himself  returning  the  smile,  and  feeling  extremely 
well-disposed  toward  his  silent  vis-a-vis.  At  last  Lan 
gle,  having  again  arrested  Peyton's  attention,  ceremo 
niously  lifted  his  goblet  of  wine,  pursed  his  lips  in  a 
mischievous  silent  laugh,  and  then  said  in  a  tone  whim 
sically  fraught  with  affection  and  importance,  "  A  glass 
of  wine  with  you,  Mr.  Peyton."  The  manner  and  voice 
were  irresistible,  and  Peyton  responded — as  even  a 
fanatical  total  abstainer  must  have  done— by  carrying 
his  glass  to  his  lips.  At  this  auspicious  action  Langle 
looked  around  the  table,  included  all  the  diners  in  a 
broad,  bland,  comprehending  smile  of  welcome  and 
good-fellowship,  and  said:  "Gentlemen,  a  glass  of 
wine  with  Mr.  Peyton."  From  every  Utopian  there 
came  the  hearty  response,  "  A  glass  of  wine  with  you, 


UNCLE     BARNABY. 
"The  white-haired  patriarch  arose  and  spoke." — Page  164. 


A  Brief  Visit  in  Utopia.  165 

Mr.  Peyton,"  and  the  stranger  felt  himself  a  stranger 
no  more.  He  looked  over  at  Langle  and  nodded  his 
thanks  when  that  ever-alert  man  instantly  raised  his 
goblet  again,  smiled  with  twinkling  eyes  and  whispered 
"A  glass  of  wine  with  you,  sir,"  and  at  no  time  during 
the  evening  did  his  glance  by  chance  or  design  meet  that 
of  Langle  without  the  resulting  invitation;  each  time 
extended  as  if  at  that  moment  happily  thought  out  for 
the  first  time. 

After  a  while  there  were  sudden  calls  around  the 
table  for  "Uncle  Barnaby,"  and  the  white-haired  patri 
arch  arose  and  spoke.  He  was  handsome,  with  a  manly 
beauty  which  suggested  to  Peyton  pictures  of  fighting 
admirals  of  the  olden  days.  He  addressed  the  company 
as  his  "children,"  and  in  a  kindly  bluff  manner  talked 
about  them  and  himself,  told  stories,  and  suddenly, 
without  any  excuse,  broke  off  into  an  old-fashioned 
sea-song  of  which  the  diners  roared  the  chorus.  Then 
he  said  that  he  had  intended  to  make  a  speech,  but  had 
decided  to  impose  that  duty  on  his  young  friend  Maple- 
ton.  In  response  to  delighted  cries  for  "Mapleton,"  a 
tall,  slight,  erect  man  rose  and  began  to  speak.  The  first 
note  of  his  voice  struck  the  ear  with  the  pleasurable 
shock  of  an  unexpected  organ  peal.  It  was  rich,  deep, 
resonant,  booming,  and  his  words  poured  forth  like  a 
majestic  stream  moving  steadily  onward,  and  as  a  great 
stream  moves,  naturally,  and  without  effort.  He  smiled 
sneeringly  as  he  spoke  of  the  world  outside  of  Utopia; 
smiled  good-naturedly  as  he  teased  with  their  individual 
foibles  some  of  his  hearers;  but  his  face  had  almost  an 
exalted  look  as  he  closed  with  an  apostrophe  to  that 
unselfish  friendship  between  men  which,  in  their  Uto 
pia,  was  prized  beyond  riches  and  all  worldly  honor. 

"He  is  your  great  orator:    some  distinguished  law- 


166  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

yer?"  Peyton  whispered  to  Masters,  while  all  applauded 
at  the  finish. 

"He  is  a  newspaper  man,  a  reporter,"  Masters  an 
swered,  and  Peyton,  thinking  of  Philip,  applauded  all 
the  more. 

A  man  left  the  table  and  went  to  a  piano,  where 
another  Utopian  hummed  while  the  pianist  felt  for  the 
chords,  and  soon  swung  into  a  full  and  harmonious  ac 
companiment  of  a  tune  he  had  never  heard  before,  and 
the  singer  sang  verses  written  that  day  for  that  even 
ing.  Nearly  every  one  at  the  table  had  contributed 
something  to  the  entertainment,  a  song,  a  speech,  a 
poem,  a  story,  when  Mr.  Langle,  whose  glance  Peyton 
for  discretionary  reasons  had  long  avoided,  rose,  moist 
ened  his  lips  several  times,  beamed  upon  all  with  im 
partial  friendliness,  and  remarked  confidentially:  "I 
cannot  conceal  from  you  longer  the  glad  tidings  that  we 
will  now  listen  to  a  song  from  my  old  and  dear  friend, 
George  Peyton." 

Peyton  felt  his  heart  drop  into  some  unknown  depths 
as  he  heard  his  name  thus  mentioned,  but  the  spirit  of 
the  gathering  took  quick  possession  of  him — revived 
him — and  he  sang,  in  a  big,  tuneful  untrained  voice,  a 
yachting  song  new  to  his  listeners,  but  they  caught  the 
chorus  and  were  roaring  it  with  him  after  the  second 
verse. 

He  lived  in  Utopia,  waiting  for  the  return  of  the 
senior  Masters,  a  week.  It  was  as  unlike  any  other  life 
he  had  ever  known  as  if  he  had,  indeed,  been  transported 
to  Sir  Thomas  More's  fabled  paradise. 

Horace  Masters,  senior,  greeted  George  Peyton  with 
almost  fatherly  affection,  and  after  they  had  dined  one 
evening  at  the  Masters'  home  he  took  the  New  Yorker 
into  his  library  and  said,  with  a  kindness  which  was 


A  Brief  Visit  in  Utopia.  167 

touching  to  Peyton:  "  Now,  my  boy,  let's  have  a  little 
chat  about  what  we  are  going  to  do.  Your  father's  son 
can  meet  the  world  and  win  success  anywhere,  but  I  am 
glad  you  elected  to  come  out  here,  to  a  younger  country 
where  the  resources  are  not  all  tied  up  yet ;  and  I  am 
glad  you  have  come  to  me,  for  your  father  never  had  a 
better  friend  or  greater  admirer.  First,  tell  me  frankly 
how  you  stand  financially." 

George  told  him,  with  a  sorrowful  laugh  at  his  own 
meagre  tale. 

The  merchant  looked  puzzled.  "  But  every  dollar  of 
your  father's  debts  had  been  paid  within  ninety  days  of 
the  failure.  Where  was  the  need  of  the  assignment 
when  there  were  assets  available  for  such  prompt  pay 
ment?  A  sound  and  solvent  firm  could  not  settle  all  its 
affairs  sooner.  Wait!  never  mind  that  now.  Was  that 
Mark  Waters  managing  your  father's  affairs  at  the  time 
of  the  assignment?" 

George  told  him  the  fact. 

Mr.  Masters  puffed  his  cigar  for  some  time  in  silence. 
Then  he  said:  "Everything  went  to  the  creditors: 
real  estate  and  all,  I  hear." 

"Everything  was  sold,"  answered  George.  "Even 
my  father's  horses,  traps,  his  yacht,  the  horses  and  the 
sloop  my  brother  Philip  and  I  owned.  The  cash  we 
saved,  I  have  told  you,  came  from  some  trifles,  guns, 
saddles,  and  things  of  that  kind,  we  sold  after  every  one 
had  been  paid.  The  whole  estate  consists  now  of  one 
encumbered  piece  of  business  property  in  a  poor  part  of 
the  city." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Masters,  "I  will  ask  you  one'more 
question  about  the  affair,  and  then  we'll  not  talk  about 
that  any  more — for  the  present :  Did  your  father  have 
perfect  confidence  in  that  Mark  Waters  to  the  last?" 


1 68  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

"I  cannot  tell,"  George  answered  slowly.  "  At  the 
very  last,  almost  the  last  hour,  you  understand,  father 
mentioned  Waters,  and  seemed  to  want  to  talk  about 
him,  but  the  subject  plainly  distressed  him,  and  we, 
Phil  and  I,  would  not  let  him  talk  about  it  any  more — 
not  then — but  then  he  died." 

Masters  walked  up  and  down  the  library,  wiping  his 
eyes  in  the  dark  corner  of  the  room,  but  when  he  sat 
down  again  he  said  cheerfully :  "  Do  you  want  to  go  to 
work  in  my  office  to-morrow  morning?" 

"Certainly  not!"  exclaimed  George.  "  I  would  not 
be  worth  my  salt  there ;  I  must  go  to  work  where  mus 
cle  counts." 

"Good  for  you!  I  hoped  you'd  say  that.  We  must 
go  to  work  where  muscle  and  brain  count  together. 
That  is  the  way  most  of  us  who  have  made  a  little  stake 
here  started.  Have  you  any  idea:  anything  in  mind?" 

"Well,"  George  said,  stammering  a  little.  "  Has  all 
the  mining  passed  away?  I've  heard  father  say  your 
heart  was  always  in  mining  even  if  your  capital  was 
not." 

"And  he  was  right  there,"  Mr.  Masters  laughed. 
"I'm  not  one  of  the  big  miners,  you  must  understand, 
and  never  have  been.  But  I've  always  believed  we've 
only  scratched  the  surface  of  our  gold  deposits,  and  I 
have  kept  a  little  investment,  and  a  big  piece  of  my 
heart,  in  the  mines  ever  since  I  left  them.  I  have  lately 
received  some  very  promising  news  from  an  old  mining 
camp— it  was  once  totally  deserted,  in  fact — called  Blue 
Canon,  where  I  have  some  interests.  It  will  do  no 
harm  for  you  to  take  a  trip  up  there.  There  is  no  secret 
or  mystery  about  gold-quartz  mining.  One  intelligent 
man  can  look  as  far  into  a  mountain  as  another  after  he 
has  learned  to  tell  quartz  from  porphyry,  and  iron 


A  Brief  Visit  in  Utopia.  169 

pyrites  from  flake  gold.  You  go  up  there.  Look 
around.  If  *you  find  something  you  like  and  it  needs  a 
little  money  for  development  let  me  know,  and  I'll  see 
if  I  can't  find  the  money  rolling  up  California  Street 
hill.  If  you  see  anything  that  promises  big  examine 
it  carefully,  and  if  you  still  like  it  let  me  know  and  I'll 
take  a  run  up  there,  and  we'll  make  up  our  minds  to 
gether  what's  best  to  be  done.  Come  to  the  office  in 
the  morning,  and  we'll  see  if  our  cashier  is  good- 
natured  enough  to  fix  matters  up  about  expense.  Eh?" 
George  declared  that  he  had  enough  money  for  the 
trip,  and  to  last  some  time  too.  The  merchant  only 
added :  "  As  you  like,  my  boy,  but  when  you  do  need 
a  little  advance  let  me  know,  and  I'll  send  Horace  out 
to  see  if  he  can't  shoot  some  on  the  fly.  He's  quite  a 
wing  shot." 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

IN  A  SIERRA  NEVADA  MINING  CAMP. 

ON  the  morning  of  the  second  day  after  his  talk  with 
the  San  Francisco  merchant,  George  Peyton  stood  in 
front  of  the  stage-coach  office  in  the  hot  little  railroad 
town  of  Goldville,  watching  his  fellow  passengers  crowd 
into  and  upon  the  Blue  Canon  coach.  There  were  more 
men  bound  for  the  revived  mining  camp  than  the  coach 
could  accommodate;  for  no  matter  where  a  gold  excite 
ment  springs  up  in  California  it  finds,  even  yet,  hun 
dreds  of  men  eager  to  rush  in ;  new-comers,  like  Peyton, 
and  old-timers  whose  lives  have  been  passed  in  pursuit 
of  such  excitement;  not,  I  firmly  believe,  moved  alone 
by  the  fever  of  gold  quest,  but  by  the  fascination  of  the 
adventurous  life  which  retains  to-day  nearly  as  many 
romantic  elements  as  it  had  when  the  master  pictured 
it  for  the  world  at  Simpson's  Bar  and  at  Roaring 
Camp. 

Mr.  Masters  had  reserved  by  telegraph  a  box  seat  for 
Peyton,  and  when  the  nine  passengers  had  been  wedged 
into  the  little  mountain  coach  which  did  not  seem  large 
enough  to  accommodate  more  than  four  inside,  and  the 
driver  had  at  last  given  his  approval  to  the  packing  of 
the  baggage  behind,  and  the  disposal  of  the  mail  bags 
and  express  box  in  the  boot,  George  clambered  up  over 
the  front  wheel  and  took  a  seat  next  to  the  driver.  The 
latter  settled  into  his  place,  gathered  up  the  reins  of  his 
six  hardy  bronchos,  and  then  a  sturdy,  rather  serious 

170 


In  a  Sierra  Nevada  Mining  Camp.  171 

looking  man,  carrying  a  short-barrelled  shot-gun, 
climbed  up  on  the  wheel  and  politely  told  George  to 
take  a  seat  with  two  other  passengers,  back  of  the  driver. 
George,  thinking  he  was  entitled  to  the  seat  he  had, 
hesitated,  when  the  driver  said,  "  He's  the  messenger: 
you  are  in  his  place." 

Peyton's  new  position  placed  him  with  his  knees  just 
back  of  the  driver's  shoulders.  There  he  learned  more 
of  the  man  who  had  displaced  him.  "  He  is  the  Express 
company's  shot-gun  messenger,"  explained  a  man  by 
his  side.  "  He  goes  along  to  guard  the  express-box, 
because  there's  nearly  as  much  money  going  into 
Blue  Canon  now  as  there  is  coming  out;  and  the 
road  agents  have  been  pretty  lively  'round  these  parts 
lately.  If  we're  stood  up  just  slip  your  watch  and 
money  into  your  boots,  if  you  get  a  chance.  Ain't  got 
boots',  eh?  Well,  pass  your  stuff  to  me  and  I'll  do  the 
best  I  can." 

George  did  not  know  how  much  of  this  was  tales  for  a 
tenderfoot,  but  the  visible  presence  of  that  messenger, 
with  his  sawed-off,  double-barrelled  shot-gun  resting 
across  his  knees,  lent  verisimilitude  to  the  passenger's 
story,  and  the  New  Yorker  felt  his  blood  quicken.  But 
there  were  hours  of  delightful  travelling  before  the 
coach  reached  "  the  road-agent  belt"  of  country.  They 
ascended  by  slight  degrees  to  the  first  plateau  above  the 
valley  level,  and  Peyton's  companion  pointed  out  with 
keen  interest  the  young  orange-groves  lining  the  road 
on  either  side.  "  I  washed  gold  out  of  the  soil  those 
trees  are  planted  in,  back  in  the  fifties,"  he  said.  "  We 
never  thought  then  that  oranges  would  be  raised  as  far 
north  as  this.  But  I  guess  the  folks  who  own  those 
grove's  will  take  more  gold  off  the  trees  than  we  ever 
did  below  the  grass-roots." 


172  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

A  little  higher,  where  the  first  low-rolling  land  of  the 
foot-hills  formed  the  foundation  buttresses  of  the  mighty 
walls  of  the  Sierras,  towering  dark  and  green  beyond, 
they  came  into  vineyards  of  flaming  red  and  purple 
grapes ;  and  after  that,  as  the  grade  grew  sharper,  they 
reached  the  uncultivated  hills  and  shallow  canons, 
where  the  pale  red  trunks  of  the  madrona,  the  twisted 
deep-red  branches  of  the  manzanita,  and  the  shady 
boughs  of  the  fragrant  bay  trees  made  homes  for 
squirrel,  and  mountain  quail  whose  coaxing  calls  were 
answered  from  side  to  side  of  the  canons.  After  stop 
ping  for  lunch  and  a  change  of  horses  at  a  station  con 
sisting  of  a  very  large  stable  and  a  very  small  bar  and 
dining-room,  they  soon  swung  out  of  the  country  of 
madrona,  manzanita,  and  bay,  into  the  greater  heights 
of  towering,  sombre  pine  and  sequoia,  where  the  talk  of 
the  passengers  insensibly  fell  to  whispers,  and  the 
occasional  harsh  cry  of  the  driver  to  his  horses  sounded 
almost  like  a  desecration. 

At  each  turn  of  the  road  where  the  ridges  between 
the  smaller  canons  ran  down  into  the  greater  one  up 
which  they  slowly  crawled,  Peyton  noticed  that  the 
messenger  lifted  his  weapon  from  his  knees  and  held  it 
in  easy  readiness,  as  a  pigeon-shot  does  while  waiting 
for  his  trap  to  be  sprung.  They  had  just  made  a  sharp 
turn,  the  lead  and  swing  teams  being  close  to  the  outer 
edge  of  the  road,  when  a  man  stepped  from  behind  a 
tree  at  the  very  head  of  the  off  leader,  grasped  its  bridle 
with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  raised  a  shot-gun, 
demanding  laconically,  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice, 
"  Throw  down  the  box!"  In  one  second  of  time  a  great 
many  things  happened:  the  messenger  and  the  man  at 
the  horse's  head  both  fired;  the  road  agent  fell  in  his 
tracks;  the  driver  with  a -groan  sank  into  the  boot,  as 


THE    SHOT-QUN     MESSENGER. 
'And  fired  at  some  one  Peyton  had  not  seen."— Page  172. 


In  a  Sierra  Nevada  Mining  Camp.  173 

the  horses  in  a  wild  panic  bounded  forward ;  the  mes 
senger's  right  arm  dropped  to  his  side,  but  he  swung 
round  in  his  seat,  rested  his  gun  on  Peyton's  shoulder, 
holding  the  weapon  in  his  left  hand,  and  fired  at  some 
one  Peyton  had  not  seen ;  and  Peyton  slipped  into  the 
driver's  seat,  gathered  the  reins  from  the  tight  clutch 
of  the  unconscious  driver's  right  hand,  and  within  a 
hundred  yards  had  the  frightened  horses  straightened 
out  and  halted.  There  was  a  hurried  scramble  into  the 
road  of  the  inside  passengers,  who  were  shouting  and 
cursing  and  asking  questions. 

As  George  set  the  powerful  brake  to  the  last  notch, 
the  messenger  turned  to  him  and  said,  "  Well,  stranger, 
you  are  a  pretty  good  one.  You  saved  us  a  spill  down 
the  bank."  He  happened  to  glance  at  the  foot  George 
held  firmly  against  the  brake,  and  seeing  some  blood 
staining  the  exposed  stocking,  added:  "And  you  were 
hit  yourself." 

"Not  much,"  George  answered,  kicking  the  leg  out 
and  drawing  it  back,  and  finding  the  bones  and  muscles 
all  right. 

"  Now  some  of  you  men  go  to  the  heads  of  each 
team,"  the  messenger  continued  briskly,  "and  some 
come  here  and  help  lift  the  driver  down." 

An  examination  disclosed  that  the  driver  had  a  shat 
tered  shoulder-blade,  having  received  there  the  greater 
part  of  the  road  agent's  charge  of  buckshot;  the  mes 
senger  a  badly  wounded  right  arm,  and  George  a  slight 
buckshot  puncture  in  his  right  leg.  Some  of  the  pas 
sengers  dressed  the  wounds  of  the  injured  as  well  as 
could  be,  and  made  the  driver  as  comfortable  as  possi 
ble  inside  the  stage;  and  others,  those  who  were  armed, 
walked  back  on  the  road,  and  after  a  while  returned, 
bringing  with  them  the  mortally  wounded  robber  who 


174  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

had  attempted  to  hold  the  coach  horses.  There  were 
no  signs  of  his  companion. 

"  I  missed  him,  then,"  the  messenger  said  regretfully. 

George  drove  the  team  into  Blue  Canon.  There  had 
not  been  so  much  excitement  there  since  the  rich  find 
in  Last  Chance  tunnel.  There  was  a  doctor  in  camp,  a 
young  man,  college  taught  and  hospital  trained,  who 
tried  hard  to  conceal  his  satisfaction  at  this  sensational 
opportunity  to  display  his  skill.  His  office  was  in  his 
bedroom  in  the  Hotel  Garibaldi,  over  the  largest  saloon 
in  camp,  and  there  the  injured  ones  were  taken,  fol 
lowed  by  as  many  of  the  citizens  as  could  crowd  into 
the  room.  After  the  serious  injuries  of  the  driver  and 
the  painful  hurt  of  the  messenger  had  been  dressed,  and 
the  driver  put  to  bed,  the  doctor  turned  to  Peyton. 
When  the  latter  had  bared  his  leg  it  was  found  that  his 
share  of  the  charge  of  buckshot,  one  pellet,  had  made 
not  much  more  than  a  deep  scratch,  and  buried  itself 
under  the  skin.  When  the  doctor  had  extracted  the 
little  ball  he  handed  it  to  George  with  the  remark,  "  It 
is  not  much  of  a  wound,  but  you  could  not  have  rowed 
as  well  in  188-  with  this  to  bother  you,  Mr.  Peyton.'' 

"  How  did  you  know  me?"    George  asked  in  surprise. 

"  When  I  saw  the  muscles  of  your  leg,  I  knew  you 
had  been  an  oarsman,  and  then  I  recalled  your  face 
from  photographs  I  have  seen  of  the  crew.  I  was  grad 
uated  the  year  you  entered." 

This  conversation  was  not  more  than  half  understood 
by  the  listeners,  but  it  added  to  the  already  intense  in 
terest  the  camp  felt  in  the  handsome  tenderfoot  who 
had  driven  the  stage  into  Blue  Canon. 

When  the  crowd  had  gathered  at  the  bar,  where  Pey 
ton  was  told  he  must  go  to  engage  a  sleeping-room,  the 
messenger,  who  was  being  boisterously  congratulated 


In  a  Sierra  Nevada  Mining  Camp.  175 

on  his  work,  turned  to  the  assemblage  and  said,  "  Gen 
tlemen,  I  only  done  what  I'm  well  paid  for  doing,  but 
here  is  a  gent  who  was  paid  nothing  to  look  after  our 
skins,  but  who  took  the  reins  from  Bill's  hands  when 
the  horses  were  running  to  beat  hell — I  put  a  buckshot 
through  the  off  leader's  off  ear  when  I  fetched  the  road- 
agent — and  this  gent  saved  us  from  a  spill  down  the 
bank.  He  done  it  as  slick  as  any  driver  on  the  road; 
which  is  why  I  ask  you  to  join  me  in  a  drink  with  Mr. 
Peyton.  Hector!  take  the  gents'  orders!" 

This  command  brought  to  Peyton's  notice  a  foreign- 
looking,  shifty-eyed  little  man,  who  wriggled  about 
among  the  crowd  taking  orders  for  drinkables,  and 
seemed  glad  that  Peyton  gave  him  an  opportunity  to 
talk  a  little  by  an  inquiry  concerning  a  sleeping-room. 
Hector  said  that  although  there  was  not  a  vacant  room 
in  his  house,  anywhere  in  the  camp  indeed,  Mr.  Peyton 
should  be  provided  for.  He  should  have  his,  Hector's, 
room  and  Hector  would  make  up  a  blanket  bed  some 
where. 

George  attempted  some  civil  objection  to  this,  but 
Hector  seemed  so  distressfully  anxious  to  secure  him  as 
a  lodger,  he  accepted  the  arrangement,  not  dreaming 
that  thereby  Hector,  having  captured  for  his  place  the 
lion  of  the  hour,  had  done  a  stroke  of  business  for  his 
bar  trade  which  would  warrant  him  in  building  an 
addition  to  the  "Hotel  Garibaldi,"  known  to  the  camp 
only  as  "  Hector's."  The  latter  had  not  overrated  the 
"drawing"  quality  of  his  lion.  That  very  evening  all 
the  principal  men  of  the  camp;  the  superintendents  of 
the  Last  Chance  and  the  other  large  mines,  the  lawyer, 
the  justice  of  peace,  the  express  agent,  and  the  assayer, 
called  formally  upon  George,  and  each  in  turn  having 
made  his  congratulations  and  paid  his  respects,  with 


176  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

surprising  promptness  dispatched  Hector  for  "a  bottle 
of  wine ;"  which  George  discovered  meant  there,  as  in 
San  Francisco,  a  bottle  of  champagne. 

This  all  took  place  in  the  largest  bedroom  in  the 
house,  Hector's,  which  had  a  seating  capacity  of  six, 
allowing  two  for  the  edge  of  the  bed;  and  until  mid 
night  there  was  never  less  than  that  number  of  callers. 
Then  the  doctor  ordered  them  all  out,  and  went  out 
with  them,  telling  George  to  go  to  bed. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  George  slept,  and  when  he 
did  he  dreamed  that  he  was  at  a  theatre  in  New  York 
where  the  curtain  never  went  up  and  the  orchestra 
played  forever;  that  the  folding  seat  next  to  him  had 
been  closed  down  on  his  leg,  and  was  pinching  him ; 
the  spectators  in  the  gallery  were  making  a  terrific  din, 
demanding  the  raising  of  the  curtain,  and  the  throwing 
down  of  the  box;  and  then  Minnie  Hazelhurst  drew  the 
cool  tips  of  her  fingers  over  his  eyes,  and  the  music  and 
noise  ceased  and  he  was  in  one  of  those  cool  canons, 
where  the  quail  called  coaxingly,  and  at  last  he  dreamed 
that  he  fell  asleep  peacefully.  That  was  when  Hector 
Cesarotti,  in  the  gray  of  early  morning,  bade  "good 
night"  to  the  last  group  of  his  noisy  customers,  whom 
he  had  entertained  for  hours  with  his  violin. 

It  was  a  long  story  for  Hector — Ettore  Cesarotti — but 
I  can  make  it  a  short  one  for  my  readers,  how  the  hus 
band  of  Teresa  came  to  be  George  Peyton's  host  in  Blue 
Canon.  With  the  money  he  took  from  Teresa,  and 
with  his  violin,  he  made  his  way,  accompanied  by  a 
coryphee  from  the  Arcadians,  across  the  Continent. 
When  his  money  gave  out  he  earned  more  in  a  dozen 
towns  on  the  way,  playing  his  violin  in  orchestras,  con 
cert-halls,  sometimes  in  dance-halls;  never  stopping 


In  a   Sierra  Nevada  Mining  Camp.  177 

long  in  one  place,  for  the  coryphee  was  anxious  to  get 
to  San  Francisco;  and  she  never  had  any  difficulty  in 
inducing  Hector  to  move  on,  by  working  on  his  ever- 
excited  fear  of  the  New  York  police,  whom  he  firmly 
believed  were  following  him  with  a  warrant  of  arrest. 

In  San  Francisco  he  easily  found  profitable  employ 
ment  in  a  popular  third-class  theatre,  where  he  pre 
ferred  to  work,  thinking  there  would  be  less  chance  of 
recognition  there  by  the  increasingly  dreaded  officers 
of  the  law.  He  was  useful  in  his  new  place,  for  he 
could  score,  transpose,  adapt,  arrange,  and  if  necessary 
steal  music  "  by  ear,"  in  a  manner  which  made  his  ser 
vices  very  valuable. 

But  his  labor  was  profitable  only  to  his  lightsome 
companion.  That  young  person,  finding  a  sure  and 
prompt  means  of  procuring  money  by  threatening  to 
inform  the  police  of  Hector's  whereabouts,  lived  in  ad 
mired  luxury  on  his  earnings,  condemning  the  unhappy 
Hector  to  the  meagre  necessities  of  life ;  and  increasing 
the  misery  of  his  lot  by  reminding  him  in  accents  of 
stern  morality,  that  so  long  as  she  left  him  enough  of 
his  earnings  to  sustain  life,  it  was  more  than  he  had 
left  Teresa,  and  therefore  she  was  treating  him  better 
than  his  deserts.  He  would  see  about  it,  would  he! 
He  would  not  submit?  Oh,  that  was  good.  Let  him 
try,  and  she  would  tell  the  police. 

This  always  ended  such  disputes,  and  as  these  dis 
putes  were  frequent,  Hector  felt  no  sense  of  loss  or 
wrong  when  he  received  a  note  from  his  coryphee  one 
day  saying  that  she  had  sailed  to  Australia  with  a  man 
the  police  were  not  looking  for,  and  she  hoped  he  would 
appreciate  all  she  had  done  for  him  in  trying  to  make  a 
better  man  of  him.  She  advised  him  to  save  his  money 
and  send  his  savings  to  Teresa. 


178  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

Now,  curiously  enough,  this  was  a  project  Hector  had 
in  mind,  and  had  had  for  a  long  time.  At  first  he 
only  thought  to  thereby  expiate  his  crime  and  relieve 
his  life  of  the  haunting  fear  of  the  law.  Lately  he  had 
realized  some  sense  of  the  wrong  he  had  done  Teresa, 
unrelated  to  his  exaggerated  notion  of  the  legal  aspect 
of  his  crime.  He  recalled  Teresa's  beauty,  her  faithful 
patience  in  trying  to  improve  herself  that  she  might  be 
his  intellectual  companion,  if  not  his  equal.  Then  he 
remembered  her  devotion  to  the  pretty  baby  he  had 
hated  but  now  felt  sentimentally  fond  of.  She  must  be 
a  big  girl  now.  But  what  kind  of  a  girl?  He  had 
heard  of  Teresa's  accident,  but  nothing  more.  He  ven 
tured  one  or  two  guarded  inquiries,  but  they  had  not 
resulted  in  any  further  information.  He  was  not  cer 
tain,  even,  that  Teresa  was  alive.  Any  way  he  would 
save  until  he  had  ten  times  as  much  money  as  he  had 
taken  from  her,  would  boldly  inquire  her  whereabouts 
from  those  who  must  know,  send  her  the  money,  beg 
her  forgiveness,  to  the  extent  at  least  of  securing  im 
munity  from  the  law;  and  then  seek  out  that  despicable 
coryphee  and  defy  her.  Thus  did  Hector  resolve ;  and 
better  yet,  thus  did  he  do — in  part.  He  earned  good 
wages  and  increased  them  by  giving  violin  lessons  in 
the  Italian  quarter  of  San  Francisco  where  he  lived ;  but 
his  old  gambling  instinct  returned  at  times  and  then 
his  savings  were  depleted.  His  task  became  like  the 
religious  obligations  of  a  sinner — not  ever  fully  realized, 
but  intermittently  acknowledged ;  and  at  such  times  a 
consolation- — at  others  a  conscience.  Years  went  by 
while  Hector  was  engaged  in  this  struggle,  and  he 
might  have  never  succeeded,  nor  again  become  involved 
in  this  story,  had  it  not  been  that  a  lucky  run  at  cards 
at  a  time  when  his  savings  were  at  high-water  mark 


HECTOR. 
He  wandered  from  mining  camp  to  camp."— Page 


In  a  Sierra  Nevada  Mining  Camp.  179 

enriched  him  unexpectedly  with  the  exact  sum  he  had 
long  ago  decided  upon  for  his  propitiatory  offering  to 
Teresa.  He  actually  had  the  money  in  his  possession, 
and  was  wondering  in  what  channels  he  should  seek 
knowledge  of  Teresa,  when  he  was  suddenly  plunged 
into  rage,  despair,  and  hysterics,  by  the  return  to  his 
lonely  fireside  of  the  long-absent  coryphee.  She  came 
like  fate,  unheralded,  unexplaining,  pitiless.  She 
wanted  money.  Poor  Hector  tried  to  resist,  but  it  was 
no  use.  She  got  all ;  and  then  took  such  delight  in 
exercising  her  easily  applied  torture  that  she  overdid 
her  game — Hector  fled. 

He  wandered  from  mining  camp  to  camp,  always 
earning  an  easy  living  with  his  violin  and  still  service 
able  voice,  which  drew  customers  to  music-hall  or  bar 
room  ;  always  fearful  lest  his  Nemesis  should  overtake 
him,  always  drinking  to  drown  that  fear.  In  a  weak 
ened  and  distracted  form  the  project  of  sending  money 
to  Teresa  clung  to  him,  and  it  was  with  this  object  that 
he  had  a  few  hundred  dollars  saved  when  he  heard  of 
the  gold  excitement  at  Blue  Canon.  He  was  one  of  the 
pioneers  in  that  camp,  and  before  Peyton's  arrival  had 
prospered  enough  to  make  the  payment  which  secured 
him  possession  of  the  flimsy,  unpainted,  two  story, 
rough-board  house  he  had  christened  the  Hotel  Gari 
baldi,  but  which  the  camp  called  "Hector's." 

He  developed  a  surprising  capacity  for  work.  He 
ran  all  three  departments  of  his  hotel,  the  rooms,  the 
restaurant,  the  bar.  People  wondered  at  the  dishes  he 
cooked,  and  a  rumor  was  repeated  that  Hector  was  a 
great  chef  practising  his  art  in  this  humble  place  for 
reasons  into  which  it  would  not  be  polite  to  inquire. 
He  housed  and  fed  the  important  men  of  the  camp,  and 
charged  them  prices  which  became  a  joke;  but  so  long 


180  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

as  they  could  pay  for  the  fun,  they  enjoyed  the  joke.  It 
was  known  that  one  man  on  leaving  camp  had  settled  a 
generous  restaurant  and  bar  account  by  deeding  Hector 
a  mining  claim  which  was  dignified  by  a  two-hundred 
foot  tunnel,  and  innocent,  so  far  as  was  known,  of  an 
ounce  of  quartz,  gold-bearing  or  otherwise.  The  claim 
was  called  the  "  Porterhouse,"  because  of  its  recent 
owner's  expensive  fondness  for  that  steak  as  cooked  in 
camp  by  Hector  only. 

At  night  in  the  Garibaldi  Hector  would  play  on  his 
violin  for  hours,  as  late,  indeed,  as  any  music-loving 
miner  would  remain  to  drink.  Yet  the  earliest  cus 
tomer  in  the  restaurant  could  be  sure  of  a  meal  prepared 
by  Hector,  and  the  camp  wondered  when  he  slept.  He 
slept  but  little  and  was  trying  to  substitute  absinthe  for 
sleep,  with  results  which  plainly  proved  sleep  to  be  the 
better  restorative. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

TOWARD  THE  UNSEALED  MOUNTAIN'S  HEART. 

THE  morning  after  his  triumphal  entrance  into  Bine 
Canon,  George  Peyton  rose  early,  excited  still  by  the 
events  of  the  day  before,  but  feeling  none  the  worse 
physically,  except  for  a  sharp  soreness  where  the  buck 
shot  had  ploughed  across  his  leg.  When  he  reached  the 
rough  wooden  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  Garibaldi,  he 
found  Hector  there  waiting  for  him.  The  thin,  nervous 
little  Italian  sidled  up  to  the  big  muscular  New  Yorker 
as  the  mincing  hound  of  his  country  might  have  made 
friendly  advances  to  a  St.  Bernard.  Had  Mr.  Peyton 
slept  well ;  did  his  wound  trouble  him ;  what  would  he 
have  for  breakfast ;  would  he  not  like  an  absinthe  frappe 
at  once? 

Hector  put  these  questions  with  a  certain  polite  solici 
tude  which  prompted  George  to  extend  his  hand  and 
say :  u  I  slept  bully,  thank  you,  and  feel  fit  as  a  two-year- 
old.  I  won't  have  anything  to  drink,  but  whenever  it's 
convenient  I'll  have  breakfast;  anything  there  is,  you 
know.  Don't  trouble  yourself." 

Peyton  wondered  why  quick  tears  came  to  Hector's 
eyes,  but  dismissed  the  subject  with  the  half-correct 
conclusion  that  the  Italian  had  had  too  little  sleep  and 
too  much  absinthe.  Hector  said  breakfast  would  be 
ready  in  half  an  hour;  so  George  wandered  down  the 
main  street  of  the  camp  on  one  of  the  high,  broad  walks 
which  lined  the  depressed  roadway,  deep  with  red  dust 

181 


1 82  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

suggesting  rivers  of  winter  mud.  Most  of  the  houses 
he  passed  were  like  the  Garibaldi,  board  and  unpainted, 
but  generally  smaller.  There  was  one  brick  building, 
a  relic  of  the  early  Blue  Canon  days  when  men  were 
there  to  garner  gold  by  placer  mining ;  before  the  quest 
of  gold  in  quartz  had  been  thought  of.  The  sign  on 
the  brick  building  was  old,  too,  and  read:  "Wells, 
Fargo  &  Co.,  Bank  &  Express  Office."  I  am  seriously 
convinced  that  if  gold  should  be  discovered  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  deadly  wastes  of  Death  Valley,  the  earliest 
pioneers  would  find  there  a  red  brick  building  illumi 
nated  with  that  familiar  sign. 

What  interested  Peyton  most  were  the  freight  trains 
with  their  eighteen  horses  driven  by  one  man,  astride  a 
wheel-horse,  with  one  single  rein  attached  to  a  leader's 
bridle.  These  trains  each  consisted  of  two  wagons,  the 
rear  wagon  called  a  "back  action,"  each  loaded  with 
stores,  or  lumber,  or  mining  and  mill  machinery 
Peyton's  amazement  at  the  fashion  of  driving  eighteen 
horses  was  so  manifest  that  one  driver,  who  recognized 
him  as  the  hero  of  yesterday's  adventure,  called  to  him, 
and  asked  him  how  he  would  like  to  try  his  hand  at 
that  kind  of  driving. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  early  risers  in  Blue  Canon  were 
edified  and  delighted  to  see  the  tenderfoot  hero  of  the 
hour,  astride  a  wheel-horse,  learning  from  an  instructor 
walking  by  his  side  how  to  guide  a  team  of  eighteen 
horses  by  a  long  pull  or  short  jerks  of  a  single  rein.  In 
making  a  turn  from  the  main  road  he  had  to  send  the 
lead  teams  so  far  beyond  the  turning-point  it  seemed 
to  Peyton  that  his  wagons  would  land  half  a  block  be 
yond;  but  he  accomplished  the  feat  so  well  (they  can  do 
that  on  a  mountain  grade  where  you  would  hesitate  to 
turn  a  sulky)  that  when  he  dismounted  the  driver  said 


Toward  the  Unsealed  Mountain's  Heart.         183 

to  him  with  approving  confidence,  "  If  you're  looking 
for  a  job  you'd  better  take  to  driving,  coach  or  freight. 
It  pays  better  than  working  in  a  mine,  and  you  don't  get 
blowed  up  by  giant  powder  so  often." 

The  friendly  driver's  advice  reminded  George  that 
in  fact  he  was  there  for  the  very  purpose — whimsical 
as  it  might  seem  to  his  coaching,  riding,  yachting, 
hunting,  pleasure-pursuing  friends  of  oh!  such  a  little 
while  ago — of  "looking  for  a  job!"  So,  after  breakfast 
(he  wondered  at  the  fresh  eggs  in  a  cocotte  with 
chopped  bacon ;  at  the  chicken  livers  brochette,  at  the 
excellent  coffee — excellent  in  spite  of  the  condensed 
milk),  he  asked  Hector  where  he  could  find  Mr.  Ward, 
superintendent  of  the  Last  Chance  mine.  The  Italian 
told  him  and,  then  said,  after  some  stammering:  "  Par 
don  me,  Mr.  Peyton,  I  do  not  ask  because  of  curious, 
but  are  you  looking  for  a  job — for  work?  I  ask  for 
business,  because  if  you  are  not  engaged  to  work  I  have 
some  business  to  make." 

George  laughed  and  said  good-naturedly:  "  I  could 
not  help  you  much.  I  can  make  a  fair  claret-cup — have 
you  a  cucumber? — and  a  decent  Welsh  rarebit,  but  I  use 
milk  instead  of  ale  in  the  rarebit,  and  this  condensed 
stuff  might  bother  me." 

Hector  held  up  deprecating  hands  and  exclaimed 
earnestly:  "You  are  making  me  fun,  Mr.  Peyton.  I 
know  you  are  a  gentleman.  What  is  it  you  say? — a 
grand  gentleman— I  know.  I  am " 

He  broke  off  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  and  then 
added,  "Anyway,  I  still  know  what  a  gentleman  is. 
That  much  I  know  yet."  He  gulped  a  half-glass  of 
absinthe,  drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  table,  his 
face  averted,  and  then  went  on :  "  What  I  have  to  offer 
is  work  a  gentleman  may  do — anyway  in  this  country." 


184  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

"Then  let  me  hear  what  it  is,  for  I  am  looking  for 
work!"  exclaimed  George,  who  was  regarding  the  little 
Italian  with  a  puzzled  look. 

Hector  explained :  he  owned  a  mining  claim,  he  said, 
on  which  some  work  must  soon  be  done.  It  was  what 
they  called  "statutory  work,"  and  it  must  be  done  soon 
or  the  claim  would  revert  to  the  Government,  and  then 
he  would  lose  it.  It  was  not  far  from  the  Last  Chance, 
and  some  experts  thought  it  was  on  the  line  of  the  rich 
lode  of  quartz  found  in  that  mine.  If  Mr.  Peyton 
would  go  to  work  there,  pushing  the  tunnel  ahead  in 
the  direction  it  was  supposed  the  lode  lay,  he,  Hector, 
would  give  him  a  half-interest  in  the  claim  as  a  partial 
offset  to  his  labor,  and  pay  him  half-wages,  two  dollars 
a  day,  and  board  him  until  the  legally  required  amount 
of  work  was  done.  As  Hector  set  forth  this  business 
proposal  he  cast  furtive  glances  at  Peyton's  face,  and 
looked  relieved  and  talked  with  more  manly  straight 
forwardness  when  at  last  he  saw  that  he  had  secured 
the  stranger's  earnest  attention.  When  he  had  finished 
Peyton  said  :  "  It  seems  to  me  very  decent  of  you,  Hec 
tor,  to  make  this  oner  at  all.  But  of  course  I  can't  tell 
whether  it  is  to  my  advantage  or  not  until  I've  talked 
with  Mr.  Ward,  to  whom  I  have  a  letter.  I'll  tell  you 
to-night  what  he  thinks  of  it." 

Mr.  Ward  smiled  at  first  when  George  told  him  of 
Hector's  offer  to  work  the  Porterhouse  mine,  but  after 
some  moments'  silence  he  said:  "I  guess  that  is  a 
sensible  thing  for  you  to  do.  You  can  learn  a  little 
something  about  practical  mining  there,  anyway;  and 
there  is  always  the  chance  of  a  strike.  If  you  do  strike 
it,  why  there  is  your  half-interest  in  the  property  to  be 
considered.  Hector's  claim  has  a  mighty  good  mill 
site  on  it,  with  water  all  the  year.  Our  company  has 


Toward  the  Unsealed  Mountain's  Heart.         185 

already  thought  of  buying  the  claim  just  to  secure  that 
site.  We  cut  the  lode  on  the  main  ridge  which  divides 
into  two  ridges  below  us,  and  Hector's  claim  is  on  one 
of  those.  Whether  the  lode  runs  along  your  ridge 
or  the  other  nobody  knows,  because  the  croppings 
disappear  before  the  ridge  divides.  Yes,  I  advise 
you  to  try  the  chance.  The  face  of  the  tunnel  is  in 
easy-working  rock,  and  I'll  go  out  there  with  you 
and  show  you  how  to  square  and  set  your  timbers, 
and  a  few  other  tricks  of  the  trade.  No  one  can  see 
into  the  mountain  farther  than  the  pick  goes;  and 
I  guess  Mr.  Masters  will  approve  of  my  advising  you 
this  way." 

That  settled  the  question  for  George,  and  the  next 
morning  he  started  forth  from  the  Garibaldi,  carrying 
a  bright,  new,  tin  dinner-pail,  well  filled  by  Hector;  and 
walked  half  a  mile  up  one  of  the  spurs  or  ridges  between 
which  lay  Blue  Canon,  ending  a  mile  farther  up  where 
the  ridges  came  together.  At  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel 
he  found  Mr.  Ward  with  a  supply  of  tools — pick,  shovel, 
drills,  hammer,  wheelbarrow,  and  saw,  axe,  and  adze 
for  the  timbers;  all  loaned  from  the  Last  Chance,  "to 
be  paid  for  when  you  strike  it,  or  to  be  returned  in  good 
order,"  Mr.  Ward  said,  with  a  smile. 

When  George  was  at  last  alone  in  the  cool  face  of  the 
tunnel — his  tunnel ! — where  the  shadows  were  scattered, 
not  dispelled,  by  the  two  candles  in  their  dirk-like  can 
dlesticks  fastened  to  the  timbers,  he  began  to  attack 
the  loose  rocks  before  him  with  such  weighty  blows, 
born  of  the  enthusiasm  with  which  he  did  all  things 
demanding  his  muscles,  and  of  the  excitement  which 
even  experienced  miners  cannot  but  feel  when  they  are 
pushing  forward  into  the  hidden  depths  of  the  moun 
tain  which  may — always,  "which  may!" — reveal  wealth 

16 


1 86  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

to  reward  the  present  work;  'he  went  at  his  task,  I  say, 
with  such  mighty  energy  that  even  his  great  trained 
lungs  were  soon  gasping  for  air.  He  laughed  when  he 
found  himself  compelled  to  rest  on  his  pick  and  give 
himself  breath:  "  I  hit  that  stroke  up  too  lively,  I'll  get 
to  the  lode  just  as  soon  at  a  thirty-four  stroke.  I  won 
der  what  a  lode  looks  like,  and  if  I'd  know  one  if  I  met 
it  walking  down  the  Avenue.  This  is  a  long  way  from 
the  Avenue — from  the  Bowery,  as  they  say.  I  wonder 
what  Miss  Minnie  Hazelhurst,  of  North  Washington 
Square,  would  say  if  she  saw  me  in  blue  jean  overalls 
and  jumpers,  chasing  a  lode  in  Blue  Canon?  But  here! 
no  more  loafing;  the  sooner  I  meet  that  lode  the  sooner 
Minnie's  cards  will  read  'Mrs.  George  Peyton,  Thurs 
days  in  January  and  February;  2  to  6. '  '  He  took  his 
shovel,  filled  his  barrow,  and  wheeled  out  the  rock  he 
had  picked  down.  When  the  rock  rattled  down  the 
long-unused  waste  dump  it  startled  a  deer  in  the  canon 
below.  At  noon  he  went  to  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel 
and  ate  the  lunch  Hector  had  provided,  and  then 
stretched  himself  out  on  a  bed  of  pine  needles  for  the 
luxury  of  a  pipe  and  a  ten-minutes'  rest.  As  he  lazily 
looked  about  him,  something  away  in  the  north,  rising 
grandly  in  the  sky,  apparently  an  illimitable  distance 
beyond  the  near-by  ridge,  caught  and  held  his  atten 
tion.  At  first  it  seemed  like  a  fixed  white  cloud;  but 
soon  the  blue-black  streaks  at  its  base  assumed  form 
and  meaning,  and  he  knew  he  was  looking  at  the  snow 
cap  of  Mount  Shasta;  upheld  by  those  rugged  bare  ribs 
of  rock  which  seemed  at  first  to  be  mere  dark  streaks 
in  a  cloud  of  sunlight  and  shadow.  Turning  his  gaze 
up  the  canon  at  his  feet  he  saw  why  it  was  called 
"blue."  Faint  blue  near  by;  darker  a  little  beyond ; 
ever  increasing  in  depth  of  shade,  until  at  last  the 


Toward  the  Unsealed  Mountain's  Heart.         187 

whole  canon  was  filled  with  a  sea  of  sublime  purple, 
where 

"The  foothills  swell  to  buttress  up  the  flanks 
Of  the  main  chain,  snow-clad,  supreme,  elate; 
Pointing  eternal,  silent,  fixed,  toward  Heaven  : 
But  Heaven  lies  all  about !" 

"  I  wish  Minnie  could  see  it,"  he  thought,  and  as  he 
rose  and  stretched  and  shook  himself  h^  called  out 
"Minnie!"  and  when  the  opposite  ridge  sent  back  the 
name,  he  faced  it  with  a  laugh  and  bellowed  "  Minnie! 
Minnie!  Minnie!"  with  such  a  roar  that  a  squirrel 
which,  with  cocked  head,  had  been  eying  the  scraps 
from  his  meal,  whisked  away  in  fright  at  this  new,  big, 
noisy  animal. 

Peyton  became  the  most  popular  man  in  camp.  He 
found  three  other  university  men  there,  the  doctor,  the 
lawyer,  and  a  Heidelberg  man  who  was  the  assayer. 
They  messed  together  at  Hector's;  and  sometimes  on 
warm  evenings,  when  the  moon  turned  the  blue  of  the 
canon  into  silver  and  ebony,  they  lay  under  a  big  pine 
opposite  the  Garibaldi  and  sang  college  songs,  with 
Hector's  violin  to  accompany  them  ;  and  the  miners 
would  leave  the  saloons  and  gambling  tables  and  join 
in  the  choruses,  as  they  learned  them.  He  listened 
eagerly  to  the  superintendent's  talk  of  their  craft;  of 
the  dips,  spurs,  and  angles  of  lodes;  of  the  clay  walls  in 
which  nature  packs  her  gold  quartz,  hanging-wall  and 
foot-wall ;  of  tunnels,  shafts,  inclines,  drifts,  cross-cuts, 
winzes,  stopes;  of  free  and  rebellious  ores;  of  milling 
processes,  and  hoisting  and  pumping.  He  organized 
athletic  sports  for  the  miners  on  their  holidays,  and 
entered  every  event — but  never  won.  When  he  lost  at 
throwing  the  hammer  the  doctor  reminded  him  of  his 


1 88  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

inter-collegiate  record  in  that  feat,  and  George  laughed 
and  answered  that  in  those  days  he  competed  with  men 
in  his  own  class  and  it  was  a  satisfaction  to  win,  but 
now  there  was  more  fun  in  seeing  the  others  win. 
When  the  delegates  from  the  camp  to  the  County  Con 
vention  were  leaving,  they  told  him  they  would  nomi 
nate  him  for  sheriff  or  break  up  the  convention,  if  he 
wanted  the  office.  He  had  to  plead  non-residence  as 
his  ground  for  declining  the  honor. 

A  thing  that  puzzled  him  was  the  behavior  and  man 
ner  of  Hector.  A  dozen  times  the  Italian  had  made 
elaborate  introductions  to  some  mysterious  subject  he 
evidently  wished  to  disclose  to  George,  or  have  his  ad 
vice  upon ;  but  after  painful  attempts  to  arrive  at  the 
matter  in  his  mind  he  had  retreated,  or  frankly  broken 
down.  Once,  after  such  a  failure  to  unbosom  himself, 
he  had  asked  Peyton  if  he  could  give  him  the  address  of 
a  man  in  New  York  who  would  attend  to  some  confi 
dential  business  for  him. 

"  That  depends,  Hector,  upon  the  nature  of  the  busi 
ness.  Is  it  to  select  a  new  vest-pattern  for  you,  or  to 
send  some  one  a  box  of  chocolates?"  George  responded. 

Hector  looked  miserable  and  confused,  but  said,  halt 
ingly:  "It  is  some  business  about  a  lady — a  woman. 
That  is,  I  do  not  know  her  address." 

Peyton  turned  from  Hector  impatiently.  He  thought 
the  Italian  was  troubled  about  the  matter  of  providing 
for  some  left-handed  entanglement,  and  answered  care 
lessly:  "Oh!  send  to  Mark  Waters.  He's  about  the 
kind  of  sneak  for  that  business." 

He  did  not  give  Hector  Mark  Waters'  address,  and 
Hector  did  not  hear  any  of  Peyton's  remark  beyond  the 
name,  and  so  did  not  catch  the  characterization  of 
Waters  as  a  sneak.  It  happened  that  a  few  days  later 


GEORGE     PEYTON. 
'I've  struck  it!"— Page  190. 


Toward  the  Unsealed  Mountain's  Heart.         189 

a  letter  came,  forwarded  for  Peyton  from  San  Francisco, 
and  printed  on  the  envelope  were  Mark  Waters'  name 
and  address.  Hector  copied  them,  and  two  days  after 
ward  sent  a  letter  to  Waters  regarding  Teresa  and  Car- 
minella,  with  a  generous  enclosure  as  a  retainer,  and  a 
first  payment  on  account  to  his  wife  and  child  if  they 
should  be  found.  Hector  said  nothing  of  this  to  Pey 
ton,  nor  did  he  again  for  a  long  time  attempt  to  speak 
to  him  on  the  subject,  which  had  always  been  difficult 
of  approach. 

George  kept  steadily  at  work  driving  in  his  tunnel 
farther  and  farther  toward  the  sealed  heart  of  the 
mountain.  He  would  have  given  up  and  gone  to  work 
for  Mr.  Ward,  had  not  the  latter  examined  the  face  of 
the  tunnel  when  it  had  penetrated  hard  "country" 
rock,  and  declared  that,  so  far  as  any  one  could  judge, 
the  indications  were  favorable.  George  was  working, 
now  that  the  rock  was  solid  and  hard,  with  giant  pow 
der,  as  the  form  of  dynamite  is  called  which  the  miners 
used.  One  evening  he  charged  with  giant  powder  three 
short  holes  he  had  laboriously  drilled — working  alone 
he  had  both  to  hold  and  strike  his  drills — attached  his 
fuses,  laid  the  fuses  across  "snuffs"  (short  ends  of 
lighted  candles),  and  ran  to  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel. 
He  waited  there,  at  one  side,  until  he  heard  the  three 
dull  reports  of  the  blast,  and  then  went  home  for  the 
night.  The  next  morning  when  he  reached  the  face  of 
the  tunnel  he  climbed  over  the  rock  thrown  down  by 
the  blast,  and  struck  his  pick  into  the  face  as  was  his 
habit.  The  pick  sank  noiselessly. 

For  one  instant  all  that  he  had  heard  about  clay  walls 
went  from  him,  and  he  wondered  at  this  seeming  phe 
nomenon  of  the  pick  sinking  noiselessly  into  adamantine 
porphyry.  The  next  instant,  with  a  sharp  cry  and  his 


190  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

heart  beating  so  that  he  heard  it,  he  caught  up  a  candle 
and  knelt  on  the  jagged  rocks,  with  one  hand  tearing 
at  the  clay,  where  it  was  peeling  from  the  smooth  sur 
face  of — what?  He  took  his  pick  and  with  a  fury  of 
energy  stripped  off  the  clay  and  forced  out  pieces  of 
rock  beyond  it,  and  with  these  pieces  in  his  hand  ran  to 
the  mouth  of  the  tunnel.  There  he  met  Mr.  Ward. 
The  latter,  after  one  glance  at  Peyton,  pushed  him  back 
into  the  tunnel.  "I've  struck  it!"  cried  George,  gasp 
ing  with  excitement.  "  Let's  hurry  to  camp — to  the 
assayer!" 

"And  take  the  whole  camp  into  your  confidence? 
You're  too  good-natured.  You  don't  go  out  of  this  tun 
nel  until  you  are  perfectly  calm,"  Mr.  Ward  said,  evi 
dently  very  determined  in  his  purpose.  He  did  in  fact 
keep  George  in  the  tunnel  until  his  first  excitement  had 
abated,  and  then  they  went  out  into  the  sunlight.  The 
samples  of  the  ledge  rock  George  carried,  for  such  they 
were,  looked  to  him  like  rough  pieces  of  white  chalk 
splashed  with  ink,  only  they  were  much  harder  than  any 
chalk.  Mr.  Ward  could  not  suppress  some  excitement 
when  he  handled  the  samples. 

"I'll  take  them  to  the  assayer!"  George  exclaimed 
again. 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  unless  you  are  a  fool. 
You'll  send  them  to  Mr.  Masters,  and  go  on  here  as  if 
nothing  had  happened  until  you  hear  from  him.  If 
that  rock  turns  out  as  good  as  it  looks,  we  want  more 
claims  along  this  ridge,  and  we'll  have  a  lovely  time  buy 
ing  them  if  you  blurt  this  out  in  camp,"  was  Mr.  Ward's 
final  comment. 

How  the  rock  turned  out  must  be  told  in  its  proper 
place,  a  later  chapter,  for  I  swear  I  have  to  return  to 
New  York  in  the  next. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

ETTORE    CESAROTTI'S    CONSCIENCE    FUND. 

IT  was  a  few  months  before  the  Chinaman,  Chung, 
stole  the  pocket-book  from  Mark  Waters'  desk  in  his 
Niantic  building  office  that  Waters  received  the  letter 
from  Hector,  referred  to  in  the  last  chapter.  There 
were  many  reasons  to  prompt  Waters  to  throw  the  letter 
in  the  waste-basket  unread:  it  was  long,  rambling,  and 
written  by  a  hand  which  trembled  so  that  it  demanded 
patient  perseverance  to  decipher  it.  But  there  was  one 
reason  which  commanded  Waters'  prompt  and  serious 
attention  :  there  was  money  enclosed,  and  he  had  caught 
at  a  promise  of  more,  in  some  contingency.  Waters 
took  the  bank  draft  of  $500  which  Hector  had  enclosed, 
and  sent  it  out  by  his  clerk  for  collection,  to  make  sure 
that  the  correspondence  was  not  some  hoax,  or  an 
insane  man's  freak.  When  the  clerk  returned  with  the 
amount  of  the  draft  in  cash,  Waters  set  to  work  to  study 
the  letter. 

Hector,  of  course,  had  not  written  the  truth.  He 
wrote  that  Teresa  Cesarotti  and  her  daughter  Carmi- 
nella  were  distant  kinsfolk  of  his  who,  so  he  had  heard 
by  chance,  were  in  distress,  and  in  need  of  money. 
He  wished  to  aid  them,  but  for  family  reasons  did  not 
at  present  want  them  to  learn  his  name  or  whereabouts. 
His  informant  had  not  given  him  their  address,  and 
he,  Hector,  was  not  certain  that  they  were  in  New 
York.  "  If  you  can  learn,"  the  letter  continued,  "  with- 

191 


192  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

out  making  inquiry  of  any  law  officers,  that  they 
are  in  New  York,  and  in  need,  and  will  send  one-half 
of  the  enclosed  to  them,  and  let  me  know  all  that  you 
find  out  about  them,  I  will,  if  they  need  help,  send  you 
something  for  them  each  month.  Most  of  all,  I  do  not 
want  you  to  let  the  fact  that  I  am  here  be  known  to  any 
one  who  might  inquire  about  me.  It  is  nothing  I  need 
be  afraid  of,  but  there  are  family  reasons  I  may  explain 
to  you  in  another  letter,  if  we  have  more  letters  to 
write.  If  you  do  not  find  them,  keep  of  the  enclosed 
what  your  trouble  is  worth  and  send  me  back  the  other 
part." 

Again  and  again  the  letter  went  over  the  writer's 
desire  to  remain  unknown  for  the  present,  and  at  last 
gave  a  clue  to  Teresa's  identity.  She  was  a  member  of 
the  "  dancing  chorus"  of  the  Arcadian  Burlesque  Com 
pany,  and  Hector  gave  other  particulars  as  to  the  date 
and  place  of  the  vogue  of  those  burlesquers. 

Waters,  when  he  had  made  sure  of  every  word  in  the 
letter,  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  regarded  with  half- 
closed  eyes  the  money  and  Hector's  labored  scrawl,  and 
then  mused:  "The  woman  is  the  man's  wife  or  mis 
tress,  and  he  has  deserted  her.  He  is  guilty  of  some 
crime  for  which  the  police  want  him.  The  connection 
won't  do  me  much  good." 

He  raised  his  hand  to  strike  his  desk  bell,  intending 
to  direct  his  clerk  to  return  the  money  to  the  writer. 
His  eyes  fell  on  the  five  $100  bills,  and  then  his  hand 
slowly  descended  on  them  instead  of  the  bell.  He 
folded  them  up  with  Hector's  letter  and  placed  both  in 
an  ample  pocket-book  which  he  returned  to  an  inner 
coat-pocket.  He  started  a  little  as  the  thought  suddenly 
came  to  him:  "  How  does  this  fellow  know  my  name 
and  address?"  He  never  for  one  moment  connected 


Ettore  Cesarotti's  Conscience  Fund.  193 

George  Peyton  with  the  incident.  He  supposed  that 
George  was  in  San  Francisco,  where,  in  care  of  Mr. 
Masters,  he  mailed  monthly  statements  of  the  accounts 
of  "The  Estate  of."  He  did  not  turn  the  money  over 
to  his  clerk  to  be  entered  and  accounted  for;  it  remained 
in  his  pocket  with  the  letter  when  he  went  up  town 
after  office  hours. 

That  evening,  in  a  lobby  of  a  theatre,  Waters  met  an 
acquaintance  whose  business,  according  to  a  very  con 
spicuous  sign  outside  of  his  office,  was  "  Theatrical 
Agent."  He  conducted  an  employment  office  for  peo 
ple  working  in  any  capacity  on  the  stage.  He  could 
cast  you  "  Hamlet"  at  an  hour's  notice,  or  supply  a 
"  dancing"  or  singing  chorus,  five  hundred  strong,  in 
twenty-four  hours.  If  the  "latest  London  sensation" 
was  wanted,  or  a  Little  Eva  who  could  introduce  a  song 
and  dance  in  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  he  was  the  man  to 
consult. 

Waters  invited  the  agent  into  a  "  cafe"  where  almost 
anything  liquid  except  coffee  was  dispensed,  and  after 
they  were  refreshed  asked  him,  with  clumsily  assumed 
indifference,  "  By  the  way,  do  yon  happen  to  recall  a 
woman  named  Teresa  Cesarotti  who  was  in  the  chorus 
or  ballet  of  the  Arcadians?" 

The  agent  laughed :  "  My  dear  fellow,  I've  had  the 
names  of  ten  thousand  chorus  women  on  my  books  since 
the  Arcadians  disbanded." 

"I  suppose  so,"  Waters  said,  "but  the  name  is  odd 
and  I  thought  possibly  you  might  recall  it.  It's  no 
matter,  though." 

"What  was  the  name,  again?  I  did  not  catch  it," 
the  agent  asked. 

"Cesarotti — Teresa  Cesarotti,"  Waters  repeated. 

The  agent  bent  his  head,  with  closed  eyes,  a  moment 


194  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

before  he  said,  "That  is  an  odd  name,  and  yet  it  is 
familiar,  too.  Cesarotti,  Cesarotti — hold  on!  I  knew 
a  man  by  that  name,  and  b'gee!  he  was  a  fiddler  in  the 
Arcadians.  That's  funny.  I  remember  perfectly,  now, 
because  there  was  quite  a  yarn  about  that  fellow.  He 
was  not  in  the  business  when  he  came  here  first,  but 
was  something  of  a  swell ;  spent  a  lot  of  money ;  bought 
boxes  at  the  opera,  and  sent  flowers  to  the  singers. 
Oh!  I  recall  Hector  now." 

"Hector!" 

"Yes,  that's  what  the  gang  used  to  call  him.  It  was 
the  English  for  his  Italian  name " 

"  Ettore?"  asked  Waters. 

"Sure.  That's  right.  But,  say,  you  seem  to  know 
him  better  than  I  do.  He  went  wrong  through  gin  or 
cards,  and  took  to  fiddling  for  a  living.  He  married  a 
girl  in  the  business,  I  think.  That  must  be  this  Teresa 
you  are  asking  about." 

"Perhaps,"  Waters  replied.  "What  became  of  her, 
do  you  know?" 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  the  agent,  slowly,  "there  was 
a  story  about  that.  Either  she  skipped  from  Hector, 
or  he  skipped  from  her.  Anyway  she  was  killed  after 
ward." 

"Killed?" 

"  Yes,  fell  through  a  trap-door  on  the  Arcady  stage 
one  night,  I  think.  Died  in  the  hospital,  as  I  recall." 

"And  her  child?  There  was  a  girl!"  Waters  said 
eagerly,  and  his  arm  pressed  against  the  coat-pocket 
where  the  $500  lay. 

"Never  heard  of  a  child,"  the  agent  replied,  looking 
at  Waters  curiously.  "  If  there  was  one,  the  Society 
got  her,  I  suppose,  and  she's  now  milking  cows  and 
weeding  vegetables  out  West  somewhere.  That's  what 


THE     FARO     DEALER. 
The  polite,  soft-spoken  man  who  dealt  the  cards."— Page  194. 


Ettore  Cesarotti's  Conscience  Fund.  195 

the  Society  does  with  them;  but  that's  better  than 
working  in  the  ballet  at  five  dollars  a  week,  with  work 
half  the  year.  Going  in  to  see  the  next  act?" 

At  a  late  hour  that  night  Mark  Waters  accompanied 
a  party  of  companions  to  a  gambling-house,  and  when 
he  left  it  the  polite,  soft-spoken  man  who  dealt  the  cards 
at  the  faro  table  had  straightened  out  Hector's  five 
$100  bills  and  laid  them  evenly  on  a  pile  of  other  bills 
in  the  cash  drawer  at  his  right  hand. 

A  week  later  Waters  wrote  this  letter  to  Hector: 

SIR  :  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  undertaking  any  business  without 
being  fully  advised  of  its  nature  in  all  particulars.  For  this  rea 
son  and  the  additional  one  that  there  seems  to  be  some  event  in 
your  life  which  has  brought  you  into  conflict  with  the  law,  I 
should  have  returned  your  letter  and  remittance  at  once  and 
declined  further  correspondence,  had  not  an  accident  made  me 
aware  of  the  unfortunate,  the  pitiful  circumstances  of  your  wife 
and  daughter,  for  such  I  know  the  persons  you  refer  to,  to  be. 
My  personal  investigation  of  their  state  prompted  me  to  use  for 
their  benefit  the  full  amount  of  the  remittance  you  made  to  me 
and  some  of  my  own  means  besides  ;  but  that  is  no  matter,  for  I 
am  always  glad  to  give  according  to  my  means,  especially  when 
I  know  of  such  sorrowful  suffering  as  that  in  which  I  found  those 
unhappy  women.  I  shall  not  inform  you  of  their  address,  even 
if  you  desire  it,  until  you  have  given  more  evidence  of  being 
worthy  to  communicate  with  them.  It  would  injure  my  standing 
in  the  business  community  to  be  known  to  have  business  relations 
with  so  unworthy  a  person  as  you.  so  therefore  I  direct  you,  in 
making  your  next  remittance,  to  return  therewith  this  letter. 
Upon  your  compliance  with  this  condition,  and  to  some  extent 
also  upon  the  amount  of  your  future  remittances  (I  say  this  as 
the  benefactor  of  your  wife  and  child),  will  depend  my  observ 
ance  of  your  wish  not  to  have  the  police  informed  of  your  where 
abouts. 

Waters  spent  hours  upon  the  composition  of  this  let 
ter.  It  was  neither  signed  nor  addressed,  nor  did  it 
contain  the  name  of  either  Teresa  or  Carminella.  The 


196  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

blackmailing  threat  it  contained  was  based  upon  his 
assumption  of  Hector's  criminality  in  some  regard,  and 
it  worked  successfully.  He  enclosed  it  in  a  plain  en 
velope,  and  addressed  it  in  a  carefully  disguised  hand. 
In  exactly  a  month  from  the  arrival  of  the  first  letter 
Waters  received  a  second  letter  from  Hector,  enclos 
ing  a  remittance  and  Waters'  letter. 

For  many  months  Hector  uncomplainingly,  so  far  as 
his  letters  showed,  thus  contributed  to  Waters'  income. 
The  latter  frequently  forced  larger  contributions,  by 
hinting  that  his  conscience  prompted  him  to  abandon 
the  office  he  had  undertaken  as  Hector's  almoner,  and 
turn  the  matter  over  to  the  police.  During  all  these 
months  the  Hotel  Garibaldi  was  making  large  profits, 
and  during  the  latter  months  Hector's  income  was 
increased  from  the  Porterhouse  mine.  Waters'  need  of 
ready  money,  which  was  growing  grievous  through 
gambling  and  the  extravagances  of  his  ostentatious 
vanity,  at  last  made  him  reckless.  In  one  of  his  com 
munications  to  Hector  he  demanded  a  thousand  dollars 
and  unguardedly  signed  the  letter.  It  was  returned  as 
usual  by  Hector,  but  with  a  check  for  only  five  hundred 
dollars.  Hector  wrote : 

...  I  have  already  sent  you  many  thousand  dollars.  I  have 
asked  you  many  times  to  give  me  the  address  of  my  wife,  Teresa 
Cesarotti,  and  my  daughter,  Carminella.  Now  I  say  to  you,  for 
I  know  my  wife's  good  heart,  that  since  I  have  done  so  much  for 
her,  she  will  not  ask  the  police  to  punish  me  for  that  bad  thing  I 
have  done.  Now  I  say  to  you,  tell  my  wife  who  it  is  that  has 
given  her  all  this  money  ;  tell  her  to  write  to  me  ;  tell  her  that  I 
am  a  sick  man  and  may  soon  die,  but  before  I  die  it  is  right  she 
should  know  something  about  my  family;  who  I  am,  to  tell  my 
daughter,  and  about  my  property.  I  do  not  care  for  your  threat. 
I  have  a  good  friend  here  who  tells  me  not  to  fear. 

ETTORE  CESAROTTI. 


Ettore  Cesarotti's  Conscience  Fund.  197 

Mark  Waters  put  the  draft  which  Hector  enclosed 
into  his  safe,  for  it  was  after  banking  hours  when  the 
letter  came  and  the  draft  could  not  be  cashed  until  the 
next  day.  The  two  letters,  his  own  signed  one  which 
Hector  had  returned,  and  the  defiant  one  Hector  had 
written,  lay  open  before  him  on  his  desk,  and  he  was 
regarding  them  scowlingly,  trying  to  determine  how  he 
could  meet  this  unexpected  and  dangerous  situation, 
when  he  was  interrupted  by  his  clerk. 

The  reader  will  recall  what  happened  then.  Mark 
Waters  hastily  folded  the  two  tell-tale  letters  into  his 
open  pocket-book  which  he  left  on  his  desk  when  he 
went  into  the  next  room  with  his  clerk. 

It  was  at  that  moment  the  silent,  smiling  Chung,  com 
ing  to  pay  his  uncle's  rent,  saw  the  pocket-book  and, 
on  the  chance  of  its  adding  to  his  material  welfare,  ab 
stracted  it. 
17 


CHAPTER    XX. 

MARK   WATERS   PLAYS  A  PART. 

SINCE  the  time  when,  as  he  believed,  Tom  Lyon,  the 
janitor's  son,  had  stolen  the  pocket-book  from  the 
Niantic  building,  Waters'  first  acute  fear  of  disclosure 
had  been  lulled  and  almost  forgotten.  Dan  Lyon  had 
disappeared  from  the  building,  gone  to  live  in  the  coun 
try,  and  his  son  with  him,  Waters  supposed;  and  he 
heard  or  saw  nothing  more  of  them.  The  police  had 
made  a  little  fruitless  investigation,  and  Waters,  for 
obvious  reasons,  had  not  urged  them  into  great  activity. 
The  Police  Inspector  he  had  communicated  with  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  whoever  had  stolen  the 
pocket-book  had  extracted  the  money  and  then  destroyed 
the  book  and  its  other,  to  him  worthless,  contents  as 
troublesome  evidence  to  be  put  out  of  the  way  as  soon 
as  possible.  This  theory  the  Inspector  had  explained 
to  Waters,  and,  as  it  agreed  with  the  hope  of  the  latter, 
he  had  accepted  it  readily,  and  finally  the  incident 
ceased  to  cause  him  any  anxiety.  He  wrote  to  Hector 
that  he  had  suddenly  lost  all  track  of  his  wife  and 
children,  but  believed  that  they  had  gone  to  Italy. 
To  dispel  any  suspicion  in  Hector's  mind  as  to  his 
honesty  in  the  business,  Waters  returned  the  last 
remittance  of  $500,  although  it  cost  him  a  hard  struggle 
to  do  so.  He  was  a  complete  coward,  and  the  defi 
ant  letter  had  frightened  him.  Hector  had  written  again 
earnestly  begging  Waters  to  make  immediate  search  for 

198 


Mark  Waters  Plays  a  Part.  199 

his  wife  and  daughter,  and  hinted  at  a  large  fortune 
which  would  go  to  Carminella.  Waters  had  replied 
that  he  was  making  every  effort  to  find  Teresa,  and  two 
or  three  times  since,  in  answer  to  Hector's  increasingly 
urgent  letters,  had  assured  him  that  he  had  secured 
clues  which  would  soon  place  him  again  in  communica 
tion  with  Teresa.  Waters  had  used  his  utmost  skill  in 
his  additional  correspondence  with  Hector  to  thoroughly 
regain  the  Italian's  confidence;  for  the  later  news  from 
Blue  Canon  spoke  with  certainty  of  the  valuable  property 
which  would  be  Teresa's  and  Carminella's  at  Hector's 
death.  As  Waters  then  believed  that  Teresa  was  dead 
and  Carminella,  if  alive,  a  drudge  on  some  Western 
farm,  he  took  a  lively  interest  in  the  idea  of  having 
Hector's  property  under  his  control. 

Now,  after  all  this  time  of  immunity  from  fear  of  ex 
posure,  the  discovery  he  had  made  in  the  Tivoli  office, 
in  his  conversation  with  Mr.  Dean,  shook,  dazed,  nearly 
stunned  him.  He  could  not  tell  but  that  Hector,  even 
in  that  far-off  California  mining  camp,  would  hear  of 
the  almost  sensational  success  of  La  Cortese,  and,  of 
course,  Waters  did  not  know  that  the  name  "  La 
Cortese,"  would  mean  nothing  to  Hector.  Exposure  in 
this  matter  meant  much  more  than  any  possible  punish 
ment  which  could  be  inflicted  upon  him  for  his  embez 
zlement  of  the  sums  Hector  had  intrusted  to  him.  It 
would  cause  investigations,  the  thought  of  which  made 
him  shiver,  as  he  sat  in  a  chill  of  perspiration  waiting 
for  the  return  of  the  messenger  he  had  sent  to  learn  La 
Cortese's  address,  after  he  left  his  companions  on  the 
night  of  the  alarming  discovery  in  Mr.  Dean's  Tivoli 
office.  When  the  messenger  returned  and  correctly 
reported  Carminella's  address,  he  did  not  make  the 
customary  appealing  work  of  counting  out  the  change. 


2OO  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

He  gave  a  sharp  look  at  Waters'  face  and  boldly  walked 
out  without  an  allusion  to  money.  He  enlightened  the 
sleepy  elevator-boy  with  the  comment:  "  De  mug  has 
been  jolted  hard,  and  so  I  pockets  de  boodle  widout  no 
bluff,  for  he'd  take  notice  of  nottin  but  a  eart'quake. 
See?" 

Something  more  nearly  resembling  an  emotional 
earthquake  than  he  had  ever  before  experienced  was 
shaking  Waters.  The  cold  confusion  of  fear,  which 
contracted  his  heart  one  moment  and  sent  his  blood  in 
icy  jets  through  his  chill  body,  the  next  gave  way  to  an 
overpowering  flood  of  sensuality;  until  the  gray  fear  in 
his  face  was  dyed  in  purple,  and  his  heavy  under-lip 
drooped  in  an  animal  grin  he  could  not  control.  In  his 
life  Waters  had  never  before  been  so  stunned  with  desire, 
with  what,  in  his  nature,  was  the  one  element  of  love 
he  was  capable  of  feeling,  as  when  Carminella  had 
fastened  his  flower  in  her  zouave  jacket  with  a  wholly 
impersonal,  an  almost  childishly  unconscious,  smile. 

How  overpowering  was  this  passion — and  I  dislike  to 
describe  by  even  that  much -abused  word,  the  sensual 
torment  he  endured — even  Waters  did  not  realize  until 
hours  later,  as  he  sat  in  his  room  trying  to  steady  his 
nerves  with  whiskey.  He  started  suddenly,  lifted  his 
head  from  the  table,  and  looking  straight  before  him 
with  attentive  eyes  as  if  regarding  a  person  who  had 
addressed  him,  said  aloud:  "And  she  will  inherit  that 
Cesarotti's  property,  besides  saving  me  from  any  annoy 
ance  or  question  about  the  money  he  has  sent  me." 

He  already  imagined  Carminella  his. 

The  next  day  Waters  left  his  office  early  and  went 
to  his  room,  where  he  dressed  carefully  for  the  call  he 
had  decided  to  make  at  once  on  Teresa  and  her  daughter. 

All  day  he  had  thought  ploddingly,  and  with  minute 


THE     MESSENGER. 
De  mug  has  been  jolted  hard." — Page  200. 


Mark  Waters  Plays  a  Part.  201 

care  as  to  each  detail,  about  the  character  he  should 
assume  before  these  women  he  had  defrauded,  and  in 
one  of  whom  he  now  felt  an  interest  in  which  were 
involved  fear,  greed,  and  passion.  His  whole  life  for 
years  had  been  an  assumption  of  characters  until  it  had 
become  a  habit  with  him,  before  any  anticipated 
meeting,  to  determine  upon  the  kind  of  person  he 
would  like  to  appear  as,  and  assume  the  role  as  well  as 
his  rather  slow  and  heavy  wits  permitted.  He  dressed 
that  afternoon  with  great  care,  and  then  drove  to  Ter 
esa's  apartments  in  a  carriage,  hired,  but  with  two  men 
in  livery  on  the  box.  Teresa,  who  happened  to  be  in 
Carminella's  little  front  room,  saw  Waters  leave  the 
carriage,  and,  recognizing  him  as  one  of  the  party  who 
had  been  at  the  Tivoli  the  night  before,  wondered  who 
such  a  distinguished  person  could  be  calling  upon  in 
that  humble  neighborhood. 

A  moment  after  he  had  disappeared  from  her  sight 
up  the  front  steps  of  the  house  she  was  surprised  to 
hear  her  own  apartment  bell  ring,  and  she  gave  a  hasty 
scrutiny  of  her  dress,  and  a  quick  glance  at  her  hair 
in  Carminella's  glass,  before  she  pulled  the  curved  lever 
which  released  the  latch  of  the  front  door  on  the  floor 
below.  She  stood  at  the  open  hall  door  of  Carminella's 
room  as  Waters  reached  her  landing.  He  saw  her,  and 
said  in  a  voice  of  carefully  measured  politeness,  "  I  am 
Mr.  Mark  Waters.  I  am  looking  for  Mrs.  Cortese  or 
her  daughter;  I  think  you  are  one  or  the  other  of  those 
ladies." 

He  glanced  at  her  as  if  he  really  were  in  doubt,  and 
Teresa  smiled,  one  of  her  rare,  rather  serious  smiles,  as 
she  answered : 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Cortese.     Will  you  walk  in,  sir?" 

Waters   bowed,   somewhat   profoundly,  entered  Car- 


202  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

mineila's  room,  which  answered  as  a  reception  room 
because  it  was  the  only  one  carpeted,  and  took  a  seat 
with  his  back  to  the  light.  He  swung  his  silk  hat  by 
its  rim  between  the  tips  of  the  fingers  of  both  hands 
and  laughed  quietly  and  as  pleasantly  as  he  could 
before  he  said : 

"  I  am  glad  really  to  find  you  alone,  Mrs.  Cortese,  for 
it  might  be  hard  to  explain  my  call  to  your  daughter; 
although  my  business,  if  I  may  call  it  business,  concerns 
her.  I  can  talk  to  you  because  I  feel  as  if  we  were  old 
friends,  you  and  I." 

"  Old  friends?"  repeated  Teresa,  in  her  slow,  exact 
English,  but  with  a  tinge  of  pleased  curiosity  in  her 
voice. 

"  Well,  not  exactly  that,  perhaps,"  Waters  said,  trying 
his  best  to  appear  easily  affable.  "Perhaps  I  should  in 
troduce  myself  only  as  an  old  admirer,  that  is — "  Waters 
paused,  and  there  was  a  shade  of  anxiety  in  his  voice 
as  he  added — "if  I  have  the  pleasure  of  addressing  a 
lady  I  admired,  although  it  was  not  my  fortune  to  know 
her,  as  Teresa  Cesarotti,  who  was  with  the  Arcadians  a 
few  years  ago." 

Teresa  flushed  slowly  and  then  answered  simply: 

"  I  was  Mrs.  Cesarotti,  but  many  years  ago." 

Even  as  he  sat  in  the  shade  she  could  see  his  face  also 
flush  slowly.  At  the  last  moment  he  had  a  faint  hope 
that,  after  all,  there  might  be  some  mistake,  and  that  this 
was  not  Hector's  wife.  He  swung  his  hat  between  the 
tips  of  his  fingers  a  moment,  collecting  himself,  and 
then  said: 

"Really,  is  it  many  years  ago?  I  remember  you  so 
well  and  you  have  changed  so  little.  But  we  will  talk 
about  those  days  when  we  are  better  acquainted,  per 
haps.  You  are  wondering  why  I  called;  I  am  a  great 


Mark  Waters  Plays  a  Part.  203 

admirer  of  the  art  of  dancing;  I  had  heard  a  great  deal 
about  your  daughter's  success,  and  went  to  the  Tivoli 
last  night  to  see  if  half  what  I  had  been  told  were  true. 
I  found  that  I  had  not  been  told  half  the  truth." 

Waters  gave  a  little  cough  of  satisfaction  as  he 
finished  this  speech.  He  had  composed  it  in  his  office, 
had  actually  written  it  out  on  paper  and  memorized  it. 
He  felt  more  confidence  now  that  he  had  brought  about 
an  opportunity  to  repeat  it,  and  had  repeated  it  cor 
rectly.  Teresa  made  no  comment,  but  he  saw  by  her 
face  that  she  was  seriously  and  not  suspiciously  inter 
ested  in  what  he  said.  He  continued: 

"  I  am  not  a  theatrical  manager,  as  perhaps  you 
might  think  from  my  interest  in  your  daughter,  yet  it 
lies  in  my  power  to  bring  her  to  the  notice  of  the  right 
kind  of  manager  in  the  right  kind  of  a  way.  You 
understand?" 

Teresa  did  not  understand  and  said  nothing,  which  dis 
concerted  Waters  a  little,  as  he  had  planned  and  hoped 
that  Teresa  at  this  point  would  ask  some  question 
which  would  draw  out  the  rest  of  his  fable  naturally. 
He  stammered  a  little  as  he  resumed,  "  I  thought, 
perhaps —  '  he  swallowed  hard —  "  you  will  understand 
my  motive  for  asking  you  if  yon  have  any  engagement 
in  prospect  for  your  daughter  at  the  end  of  her  season 
at  the  Tivoli?" 

"We  have  no  engagement,"  answered  Teresa,  "but 
of  course  we  hope  to  get  up-town  where  they  pay  better 
for  a  good  specialty." 

"  That  is  exactly  the  point,"  said  Waters,  in  a  relieved 
tone,  as  the  conversation  came  round  upon  the  lines  he 
had  designed,  "that  is  the  point  exactly;  now  all  that  I 
have  to  ask  further  is  that  you  make  no  engagement 
until  I  have  seen  you  again,  let  me  say  for  a  week,  at 


2O4  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

least;  during  which  time  I  promise  you  to  take  an 
up-town  manager  to  see  La  Cortese  dance.  You  will 
understand,  I  am  sure,  that  I  am  doing  this  merely  in 
the  interest  of  her  art,  which  is  a  fad  of  mine.  That 
she  is  a  daughter  of  one  of  the  famous  'Longs'  makes 
no  difference."  Waters  laughed  thickly  as  he  made  a 
clumsy  attempt  to  regard  Teresa  with  off-hand  gallantry 
at  this  allusion  to  the  "Longs."  Teresa  flushed  and 
smiled  again  as  she  said:  "Oh,  the  'Longs!'  I  do  re 
member.  It  was  what  they  called  us,  we  were  so  tall, 
four  of  us.  Carminella  is  nearly  so  tall — and  she  is 
here/' 

At  that  instant  Carminella  swung  into  the  room  from 
the  hall,  or  plunged  in,  or  came  in  like  an  unexpected 
gust  of  fresh  air.  I  do  not  know  how  to  describe  it. 
She  entered,  and  the  room  was  changed.  She  permeated 
it,  enlivened  it,  and  the  other  two  human  beings,  both 
of  great  stature,  somehow  instantly  seemed  small ;  the 
man  particularly  small  and  insignificant,  with  the 
impersonality  of  a  piece  ,of  furniture.  She  strode  over 
to  Teresa,  kissed  her,  exclaiming:  "It  is  so  dark, 
mamma!"  and  started  toward  the  shuttered  windows, 
when  she  discovered  the  stranger. 

"  It  is  my  daughter,  Mr.  Waters. " 

Carminella  came  to  a  sudden  sharp  stop.  She  was 
without  any  sign  of  embarrassment,  like  a  deer  in  the 
forest, motionless  and  statuesque  at  a  strange  sound  which 
bodes  no  danger.  Waters,  all  his  affectation  shaken 
from  him,  advanced  toward  her  with  outstretched  hand. 
Perhaps,  as  she  had  just  come  in  from  the  bright  day 
light,  she  did  not  see  the  hand,  for  she  suddenly  stepped 
to  the  windows  saying,  "  Let  us  have  some  light,  then 
I  can  see  you,  Mr.  Waters."  She  threw  open  the  blinds 
and  standing  in  the  full  glare  turned  toward  him  with 


Mark  Waters  Plays  a  Part.  205 

her  hands  clasped  before  her,  and  said  frankly,  "  I  am 
very  glad  to  see  yon,  Mr.  Waters.  You  were  one  of  the 
gentlemen  in  the  box  last  night  who  threw  me  the 
boutonnieres. " 

Waters  flushed  scarlet,  and  clinched  his  hands  in  an 
effort  to  control  himself,  for  he  trembled  as  he  looked 
at  the  radiantly  handsome  girl  standing  before  him, 
her  head  slightly  thrown  back,  regarding  him  with 
some  feeling  which  made  her  smile  a  little. 

"  It  was  my  boutonniere  you  were  kind  enough  to  pick 
up,"  Waters  rejoined,  cursing  himself  for  the  huski- 
ness  in  his  voice,  and  he  felt  the  veins  in  his  neck 
beating  against  his  collar. 

"Oh!  was  it  yours?"  Carminella  laughed.  "  It  was 
the  red  one,  and  I  chose  it  because  it  went  with  my 
costume." 

Waters  had  rehearsed  a  number  of  speeches  to  be 
used  in  the  event  of  his  meeting  Carminella,  but  these 
had  all  fled  from  him  and  he  turned  to  go,  muttering 
something  about  her  mother  explaining  the  object  of 
his  visit.  The  light  with  which  Carminella  had  flooded 
the  room — somehow  her  presence  seemed  to  add  to  the 
light — revealed  not  only  the  pretty,  simple  furniture, 
Tom's  gift,  but  showed  that  the  walls  were  hung  with 
black  and  colored  crayon  drawings,  many  of  them 
unframed. 

One  charcoal  drawing,  a  bold,  sketchy  bit  of  work, 
caught  Waters'  attention,  and  as  he  looked  at  it  he 
steadied  himself  with  one  hand  on  the  back  of  the  chair 
he  had  risen  from.  He  moistened  his  lips  several  times 
before  he  spoke:  "Why  that  looks  like  the  face  of — of 
a  young  friend  of  mine." 

"  It  is  Tom  Lyon,  our  best  friend,"  exclaimed  Carmi 
nella  quickly.  The  look  on  Waters'  face  made  her  add 


206  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

with  a  note  of  defiance  in  her  voice:  "  I  have  just  come 
from  his  studio. "  She  turned  to  Teresa,  "  Oh !  mamma, 
the  studio  is  lovely.  You  are  to  see  it  to-morrow." 

This  about  the  studio  confused  Waters;  he  knew 
nothing  about  Tom's  profession;  but  that  the  drawing 
represented  the  head  of  Tom  Lyon,  the  son  of  Dan, 
there  could  be  no  doubt.  He  walked  slowly  as  far  as 
the  door,  his  brain  in  a  tumult.  There  he  turned,  and 
looking  from  mother  to  daughter  said,  "  I  must  ask  as 
a  favor  that  my  good  young  friend  Tom  Lyon  is  not 
told,  not  just  yet,  that  I  have  called.  I  will  tell  you 
why  soon — it  was  a  little  misunderstanding — it  was 
with  his  father  who  was  our  janitor — it  will  all  be 
arranged  soon — until  then—  He  looked  almost  ap- 
pealingly  at  Teresa,  who  said,  "  Tom  and  his  father  are 
our  good  friends " 

"And  mine,  too,"  interrupted  Waters,  "but  this  is 
a  little  business  misunderstanding  and  until  it  is 
settled " 

"Well,  if  you  wish,"  agreed  Teresa,  and  Waters 
bowed  himself  out  of  the  room. 

When  she  was  alone  with  her  mother,  Carminella, 
whose  color  had  been  deepening  during  the  talk  about 
Tom,  said  seriously,  "  I  do  not  like  it,  mamma,  this 
about  our  not  telling  Tom." 

Teresa,  who  looked  almost  exultant,  took  her 
daughter's  hands  and  explained:  "  But  you  do  not  know, 
Carminella,  what  it  is;  you  have  not  heard  yet.  Mr. 
Waters  is  a  great  man  and  powerful,  and  he  is  to  bring 
an  tip-town  manager  to  see  you.  He  will  get  you  an 
engagement  where  every  one  may  see  that  you  are  an 
artist  and  beautiful.  If  it  is  some  little  quarrel  with 
Dan,  it  is  not  our  quarrel." 

"Are  you  sure  he  is  great  and  powerful,  mamma?" 


Mark  Waters  Plays  a  Part.  207 

Carminella  asked,  taking  down  the  crayon  of  Tom  and 
pinning  it  on  the  wall  closer  to  her  mirror. 

"  Did  he  not  come  here  in  his  own  carnage  with  two 
servants?" 

Carminella  shrugged  her  shoulders;  but  any  doubts 
she  may  have  had  as  to  Waters'  influence  were  soon  dis 
sipated,  for  that  very  week  Waters  was  seen  in  a  Tivoli 
box,  with  a  great  up-town  manager,  and  before  another 
week  the  delighted  and  resplendent  Dominico  was 
craftily  negotiating  a  contract  for  Carminella's  appear 
ance  in  a  forthcoming  production  concerning  which  the 
newspapers  were  already  broken  out  with  paragraphs; 
which  production  would  signalize  no  less  an  event  than 
the  return  to  her  native  New  York  of  that  tremendous 
London  sensation,  Marie  Leon,  known  in  the  first  chap 
ters  of  this  history  as  Maggie  Lyon. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

A  NIGHT  AT   HOME  AND  ABROAD. 

CARMINELLA  had  said  to  Tom  Lyon  one  night  at  their 
Arctic  Garden  supper  that  he  would  soon  be  leaving 
the  Tivoli  altogether  and  pursuing  his  art  work  in  his 
own  studio,  and  this  had  come  to  pass  just  at  the  time 
Mark  Waters  had  made  his  troublesome  discovery  of 
the  existence  of  the  wife  and  daughter  of  his  correspon 
dent  in  Blue  Canon.  The  very  day  Waters  called  on 
Teresa,  as  described  in  the  last  chapter,  Carminella  had 
returned  home  from  Tom's  studio,  where  she  had  been 
with  Philip  Peyton  helping  to  install  Tom  in  his 
studio.  Teresa  had  unquestioningly  allowed  Carmi 
nella  to  go  there  without  her,  for  she  had  always  looked 
on  Tom  in  his  relation  to  her  daughter  exactly  as  if  he 
had  been  Carminella's  older  brother. 

The  studio  had  been  a  find  of  Philip's.  It  belonged 
to  a  famous  artist  and  illustrator  who  was  going 
to  Europe  to  stay  a  year.  Philip  knew  him,  and 
when  he  heard  of  his  intended  departure,  suggested 
the  plan  of  Tom's  occupying  the  vacant  New  York 
studio.  It  happened  that  the  artist  had  seen  some  of 
T.  Fitz  Gerald  Lyon's  work,  and  when  Philip  brought 
the  two  men  together,  he  admired  Tom,  and  made 
some  pretty  compliments  about  his  work  in  a  perfectly 
frank  manner  which  pleased  Tom  mightily.  There 
was  no  trouble  after  that  about  arranging  for  the  sub 
lease,  and  when  Dan  was  brought  over  from  Mulberry 

208 


A  Night  at  Home  and  Abroad.  209 

Court  to  examine  the  premises  and  take  the  matter  under 
consideration,  for  once  in  his  life  there  was  no  delay 
in  his  passing  judgment.  He  even  offered  to  pay  the 
whole  rent  in  advance,  which  did  not  do  Tom  a  bit  of 
harm  in  the  estimation  of  the  great  artist,  who,  how 
ever,  said  that  the  agent  of  the  studio  building  would 
collect  the  monthly  rent  from  Tom,  as  if  there  had  been 
no  change  in  the  tenant.  There  was  a  big,  north-lighted 
working-room  which  had  the  height  of  two  floors,  and 
a  bedroom  and  bathroom  at  one  side,  reached  by  a 
short  flight  of  unenclosed  oak  stairs  running  from  the 
studio.  Beneath  the  bedroom  and  separated  from  the 
studio  by  portieres,  was  a  cosey,  low-ceilinged  room 
called  the  model  room,  but  used  by  the  artist  as  his  own 
personal  den  when  not  required  as  a  dressing-room  by 
a  model.  All  the  rooms  were  abundantly  furnished  by 
the  artist  who  had  occupied  them  for  years,  and  con 
tained  a  confusion  of  properties  and  accessories — the 
artistic  odds  and  ends  a  busy  illustrator  gathers  about 
him  for  his  work.  Most  of  these  the  departing  artist 
left  in  Tom's  care  and  for  his  use.  Carminella,  Tom, 
and  Philip  re-arranged  them,  and  took  account  of  stock: 
the  casts,  the  fabrics,  the  musical  instruments,  the 
weapons  old  and  new,  the  bits  of  armor,  the  antique 
furniture,  the  brasses,  the  pottery,  the  glass,  the  china, 
the  rugs,  furs,  pipes,  costumes— a  fascinating  confusion 
of  the  elements  of  the  picturesque  of  every  age  and 
every  land. 

Some  of  Tom's  belongings  were  brought  over  from 
Mulberry  Court;  for,  although  he  intended  to  make  a 
practice  of  going  home  to  dine  with  Dan  and  sleep  there, 
it  was  determined  that  his  studio  sleeping-room  should 
be  made  ready  for  use;  "for,"  urged  Philip,  "there's  no 
telling  when  you  may  want  a  place  in  town  to  bunk  in." 


2io  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

Tom  was  feverishly  anxious  to  get  to  work  in  his 
new  quarters.  There  was  what  seemed  to  him  the  ap 
palling  rent  to  pay — although  his  father  had  guaranteed 
this,  Tom  had  no  thought  of  ever  permitting  him  to  make 
his  guarantee  good — and  then  there  was  an  accumu 
lation  of  orders  he  was  eager  to  fill.  The  Guardian  was 
not  the  only  publication  calling  upon  him  for  drawings; 
his  signed  work  had  opened  a  quick  market  for  him. 
Many  weekly  papers,  some  of  the  lesser  magazines,  and 
a  number  of  book  publishers  had  ordered  drawings  from 
him,  and  the  hours  of  daylight  were  not  long  enough 
for  him  to  work  in.  The  unaccountable  laziness  with 
which  an  inscrutable  Providence  afflicts  men  of  Tom's 
profession — and  indeed  of  some  others  I  know — when 
they  have  arrived  at  their  first  success  had  not  yet  made 
a  laggard  of  Tom.  In  truth  the  promptness  with  which 
he  responded  to  the  professional  calls  upon  him  was  no 
small  factor  in  influencing  the  sorely  beset  managers  of 
publishers'  art  departments  to  send  more  orders  to  this 
unnaturally  industrious  young  artist. 

Philip  and  Carminella  bossed  Tom  relentlessly  in 
arranging  the  studio,  and  every  one  of  their  arrange 
ments  was  upset  or  reversed  by  Tom  when  he  actually 
went  to  work  there.  Philip,  who  had  also  moved  into  new 
quarters,  decided  to  celebrate  the  studio  opening  by  an 
evening  "  at  home,"  in  his  own  rooms  where  Tom  should 
meet  a  few  men  "  it  would  do  him  no  harm  to  know." 

Until  within  a  month  Philip,  ever  since  George  went 
West,  had  lived  in  a  cheap  room  in  Greenwich  village, 
not'  far  from  Abingdon  Square.  George  was  a  scant 
and  reticent  correspondent  and  had  written  little  that 
was  definite  about  the  prospects  of  the  Porterhouse  Mine 
Claim  in  Blue  Canon ;  but  his  remittances  had  increased 
generously,  and  in  a  late  letter,  in  which  Philip  was  sure 


A  Night  at  Home  and  Abroad.  211 

he  discovered  signs  of  restrained  excitement,  George 
had  ordered  that  apartments  for  both  of  them  be  taken. 

"Don't  be  too  particular  about  the  cost,  old  man," 
George  wrote.  "I'm  not  going  to  explain  anything 
about  anything  to  you  till  I  return,  which  may  be  soon 
now,  only  don't  be  afraid  to  rent  decent  rooms.  And 
for  heaven's  sake,  Phil,  have  a  big  bathroom  for  each 
of  us — the  biggest  there  is.  I  get  a  bath  here  by  carry 
ing  pails  of  water  from  a  spring  to  a  shed  where  there 
is  a  wooden  washtub,  which  is  used  also  for  washing 
the  hotel  linen.  And  we  want  a  big  parlor,  Phil :  a 
stunning  big  parlor  a  man  can  swing  clubs  in  without 
smashing  things.  I've  lived  in  a  seven-by-nine  room 
here  so  long  where  I  have  to  get  half  out  of  the  window 
to  dress,  it  seems  to  me  I'll  never  go  out  of  doors  again 
if  ever  I  get  into  a  big  living-room.  Get  Minnie  to 
help  you  in  buying  stuff  for  the  rooms:  she  knows  a 
corking  lot  about  those  things  and  everything,  and  don't 
forget  to  send  her  those  flowers  on  her  birthday." 

Minnie  Hazelhurst  selected  not  only  the  furniture  for 
the  rooms,  but  the  rooms  as  well ;  and  to  satisfy  her  in 
terpretation  of  what  George  Peyton  meant  by  a  "stun 
ning  big  parlor,"  she,  of  course,  had  to  select  them  far 
down-town,  as  it  happened,  not  far  above  Washington 
Square.  She  said  that  it  was  only  to  secure  a  large 
parlor  she  chose  that  location,  and  their  nearness  to 
Washington  Square  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Indeed, 
I  am  inclined  to  think  she  was  ingenuous  in  this,  for 
the  size  of  so-called  parlors  as  they  are  apportioned  to 
unfortunate  bachelors  in  up-town  apartments  would  dis 
courage  even  the  most  constricted  roomer  in  the  Hotel 
Garibaldi,  Blue  Canon. 

Philip's  first  intention  had  been  to  ask  only  a  few 

newspaper  men  to  his  "at  home"   in  his  new  apart- 
18 


212  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

ments,  but  he  recalled  the  undeniably  sincere  interest 
in  Tom  displayed  by  the  illustrator  whose  studio  they 
had  rented,  and  enlarged  his  list  by  inviting  a  few  ar 
tists.  Knowing  even  all  he  did  about  Tom's  anteced 
ents,  Peyton  had  no  idea  whatever  of  the  excitement 
Tom  was  thrown  into  by  his  contemplation  of  this  affair. 
Tom  was  conscious  in  a  whimsical  way  that  Peyton  was 
taking  an  innocent  and  perfectly  good-natured  pleasure 
in  "  promoting"  him  ;  "  But,  Lord !"  thought  Tom,  "  if  he 
could  only  have  some  notion  of  what  I  don't  know  about 
this,  he'd  go  into  a  few  more  details  in  advance."  Pey 
ton  in  inviting  Tom  had  only  said,  "Don't  dress,  old 
man,  because  some  of  the  fellows  are  coming  up  from 
the  Guardian  office  as  they  finish  work,  and  I  don't  want 
to  put  them  to  the  trouble  of  going  home  to  dress  so 
late  in  the  evening."  Tom  "took  this  under  advise 
ment"  as  seriously  as  would  his  father;  but  strug 
gle  as  he  might  with  the  phrase  "don't  dress,"  he 
could  make  nothing  of  it  that  was  compatible  with  his 
ideas  of  propriety.  He  ended  his  hopeless  wrestling  by 
assuring  himself  that  whatever  was  the  meaning  of 
the  dictum,  if  he  should  be  fortunate  enough  to  dis 
cover  it,  he  would  at  least  be  sustained  in  any  degree 
of  unconventionality  since  Peyton  had  intimated  that 
others,  too,  were  coming  who  were  not "  to  dress. "  Tom 
had  never  had  occasion  to  wear  man's  conventional  even 
ing  apparel  and  did  not  own  such  a  thing,  nor  did  he 
know  that  "  to  dress"  was  the  consecrated  term  for  don 
ning  that  particular  attire.  As  it  happened,  he  found 
out  all  this  upon  the  entrance  of  the  guest  who  next 
followed  him  into  Philip's  room.  This  was  a  man 
whose  name  made  Tom  start.  He  was  no  less  a  person 
age  than  Frank  Farrington,  the  great  illustrator,  whose 
vital  work  has  made  the  world  familiar  with  theroman- 


ONE     OF    THE    TYPES. 
How  the  devil  did  you  get  such  a  hold  on  those  types?"— Page  213 


A  Night  at  Home  and  Abroad.  213 

tic  life  of  the  border  troops,  the  Indian  reservation,  the 
round-up,  the  vaquero  on  his  lonely  trail,  the  Indian 
in  his  frenzied  dance,  the  cowboy  in  his  rough  pas 
times.  He  was  in  evening  dress,  and  said,  as  he  shook 
hands  with  Philip:  "I  had  to  dress  to  dine  with  some 
people,  but  you'll  let  me  stay  as  I  am,  won't  you?"  He 
was  a  big,  smooth-faced,  boyish-looking  man,  yet  evi 
dently  powerful  and  athletic,  with  the  breadth  and 
breeziness  of  his  beloved  plains  about  him.  Tom  had 
cut  out  and  preserved  from  magazines  and  weekly 
papers  every  illustration  he  had  ever  seen  by  Farring- 
ton.  As  the  great  illustrator  came  toward  him,  Tom 
was  thinking  if  he  would  be  bored  to  hear  one  more  ad 
mirer  praise  his  work,  and  if  he  would  not,  how  he, 
Tom,  would  phrase  his  praise.  But  the  compliments 
started  from  the  other  side. 

"Oh!  I  know  you,"  Farrington  said,  in  a  big  hearty 
voice,  as  he  grasped  Tom's  hand.  "  You're  the  chap 
who  is  making  all  these  fellows  who  draw  nice  little 
men  and  women  sit  up  and  take  notice  of  the  real  flesh 
and  blood  East-side  characters  you've  been  doing.  But 
I  say,  how  the  devil  did  you  get  such  a  hold  on  those 
types?"  Tom  flushed,  first  at  the  praise  and  then  at  this 
necessity,  at  the  very  outset,  of  having  to  explain  that  he 
came  from  the  slums. 

Peyton  promptly  interrupted  and  Tom  thanked  him 
in  his  heart  for  it :  "  Why  he  knows  his  down-town  East- 
side  as  you  know  your  plains — because  he's  lived  there." 

"  Is  that  so?"  exclaimed  Farrington,  in  a  tone  of  as 
tonishment  but  beaming  with  delight.  "  That's  the  best 
thing  I've  heard  since  the  dinner-bell.  It's  a  glorious 
day  for  New  York  illustrations  if  we're  going  to  have 
the  East-side  types  drawn  by  some  one  who  has  ever 
been  farther  south  than  Fourteenth  Street." 


214  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  another  ar 
tist,  a  thin,  rather  anxious-browed,  blond-bearded  man 
named  Nielsen,  who  spoke  with  a  slight  foreign  accent, 
and  who,  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time,  and  ap 
parently  in  a  fury  of  passion,  was  assuring  Farrington 
that  nobody,  anywhere,  now  or  ever,  knew  anything 
about  modelling  or  color,  except  Cornelius  de  Sart.  He 
broke  off  a  tirade  which  it  seemed  impossible  could  end 
in  anything  except  a  physical  demonstration,  and  asked 
Tom  how  he  got  all  his  orders.  "  Mr.  Peyton  got  me 
my  first  work,"  Tom  answered,  and  added  laughingly: 
"Then  I  chased  every  publisher  in  the  city  who  uses 
drawings,  dumped  forty  drawings  in  each  of  their  art 
departments,  and  considered  myself  lucky  if  I  sold  one 
out  of  a  hundred  offered.  They  are  coming  to  me  a 
little  now.  I  suppose  that's  to  head  me  off  from  chas 
ing  them  any  more." 

"That  is  it,"  shouted  Nielsen,  with  a  sudden  return 
of  his  excitement.  "Why  should  we  chase  them?  I 
would  starve  first!" 

"You  mean,"  said  Farrington,  "you'll  keep  in  debt 
to  your  dealer  so  that  he  can  take  two  hundred  and  fifty 
dollar  still-lifes  from  you  for  twenty-five  dollars." 

From  the  preceding  excitement  of  Nielsen  Tom 
thought  that  this  retort  of  Farrington's  could  result  in 
nothing  but  blows;  but  to  his  astonishment  Nielsen 
burst  into  a  dainty  and  musical  laugh,  locked  arms  with 
Farrington,  and  said,  "  I  guess  you  are  right,  old  man, 
but  that  is  no  reason  we  should"  not  see  what  kind  of 
cognac  Peyton  has." 

The  cognac  was  found  to  be  good,  and  Farrington 
asked  Peyton,  "  Do  you  expect  any  newspaper  men  I 
know?" 

"I  grieve  to  say  I  do  not,"  Philip  responded.     "The 


A  Night  at  Home  and  Abroad.  215 

trouble  is  I'm  not  myself  well  acquainted  with  the  big 
chaps  in  the  profession  I  adorn.  I  don't  think  I  should 
care  much  for  them  anyway.  I  wonder  whether  it  is 
that  success  in  newspaper  work  makes  a  man  unsociable, 
or  whether  only  those  who  are  not  socially  inclined  make 
successes?  The  fellows  I  know  and  like  best  are  just 
the  every-day  workers.  They're  a  jolly  lot,  I  like  them 
very  much.  The  stars  seem  to  be  cold,  unlovely  bril 
liants,  and  not  likable,  although  this  may  be  sour 
grapes.  Oh,"  he  added,  suddenly  interrupting  him 
self,  "except  Richard  Perry.  You  know  him,  Farring- 
ton — why,  of  course,  you've  been  to  the  North  and  South 
poles  with  him,  and  ridden  a  tandem  bicycle  with  him 
round  the  equator." 

The  mere  mention  of  Richard  Perry's  name  seemed 
to  affect  Farrington  as  if  he  had  just  heard  the  best  kind 
of  joke. 

"Did  Dick  Perry  tell  you  he  would  come?"  he  asked, 
laughingly.  "  But  of  course  he  did.  He  never  declines 
an  invitation.  He  says  it's  so  cold  to  decline,  but  he 
sometimes  makes  good  his  acceptance,  and  most  unex 
pectedly.  I  met  him  once  in  Alaska.  The  Guardian 
had  sent  him  to  make  a  canoe  voyage  across  Behring 
Straits  to  Siberia.  He  was  outfitting  his  expedition  when 
I  told  him  that  I  was  going  to  the  Mackenzie  River 
country,  where  I  had  heard  there  was  a  band  of  buffalo, 
and  asked  him  to  go  with  me.  He  not  only  accepted, 
but,  by  gee!  he  went  with  me.  He  altered  his  plans 
with  no  more  concern  than  if  I  had  intercepted  him  go 
ing  into  Del's  for  a  cocktail  and  suggested  that  we  cross 
over  to  the  St.  James  instead.  Listen!  That  sounds 
like  him  now." 

The  sound  was  as  if  the  man-servant— loaned  for  the 
occasion  from  the  Hazelhurst  household — had  inadver- 


216  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

tently  admitted  a  tornado  and  been  knocked  down  by  it. 
The  door  opened,  the  tornado  blew  in.  It  was  Dick 
Perry.  His  hat  was  on  the  back  of  his  head,  exactly  as 
if,  in  his  anxiety  to  reach  his  friends,  he  had  forgotten 
to  give  it  to  the  servant.  He  was  a  stout,  heavily  mous- 
tached  man,  and  there  was  gray  in  his  moustache,  but 
he  carried  with  him  the  irresistible  impression  of  joy 
ous,  boisterous,  uncontrollable,  inexperienced  youth. 
He  was  laughing  as  he  entered,  and  he  never  ceased 
laughing  during  the  half-hour  he  stayed. 

"  Broke  forty  engagements  to  come  here,  Peyton,"  he 
said,  "  and  must  leave  in  a  minute.  Must  get  on  board 
a  Mediterranean  steamer  in  Hoboken  to-night.  Going 
to  the  Holy  Land  to  write  a  story  about  the  field  Ruth 
gleaned.  Splendid  idea  for  stories,  don't  you  think? 
Fifteen  special  articles  on  the  subject,  then  print  the 
articles  in  a  book;  everybody  named  Ruth  buys  a  book 
— must  be  a  million  of  them — then  I'll  have  enough 
money  to  stay  at  home  long  enough  to  make  the  ac 
quaintance  of  my  family.  Why,  this  must  be  Mr.  Lyon 
you  promised  I  should  meet." 

He  strode  over  to  Tom  and  shook  his  hand  vigorously. 
"  Don't  want  any  one  to  introduce  me  to  you,  Mr.  Lyon  ; 
you're  a  coming  man.  Coming!  Why  you've  come 
already.  By  Jove,  your  work  is  strong — strong — strong ! 
Keep  right  on:  don't  you  let  them  laugh  you  down — 
they'll  begin  to  laugh  at  you  when  you  get  to  be  a  little 
better  known.  Some  of  'em  are  trying  to  start  a  laugh 
on  Farrington  now,  but  he's  tough — he  don't  mind. 
Farrington's  a  good  old  boy,  good  old  boy,  good  old  boy! 
Hello,  Neilsen !  That's  a  stunning  still-life  you  have  at 
the  Exhibition.  I'd  like  to  cut  that  pumpkin  you 
painted.  It  reminds  me  of  the  pies  mother  used  to 
make."  He  turned  toward  Philip.  "I  say,  Peyton; 


A  Night  at  Home  and  Abroad.  217 

they  tell  me  in  the  office  you  wrote  that  anarchist  story 
this  morning.  Strong  story,  vivid  characterization. 
They  ought  to  put  you  on  space.  I'll  write  a  friendly 
letter  to  the  managing  editor  about  that :  send  it  in  by 
the  pilot  in  the  morning.  Good  work,  rny  boy;  good 
work,  good  work!  By  Jove,  this  is  smooth  whiskey: 
never  tasted  anything  like  it.  From  a  private  stock, 
eh?  Dr.  Hazelhurst's?  I  know  the  doctor  well.  Love 
ly  character,  that;  beautiful,  beautiful!  Guess  I'll  run 
over  to  Egypt  from  the  Holy  Land  and  see  if  I  can't 
dig  up  another  Rameses  for  him.  Make  a  good  special 
anyway.  I  say,  Farrington,  come  along  on  the  steamer 
with  me." 

Perry  was  trying  to  persuade  Farrington  to  take  a 
Mediterranean  steamer  with  him  that  night,  when  three 
or  four  of  the  Guardian  men  entered  the  room  together. 
The  oldest  of  them,  the  only  one  in  fact  who  looked 
much  more  than  a  boy,  had  scarcely  crossed  the  thresh 
old  before  he  exclaimed  in  a  complaining  voice  and 
with  a  rich  Irish  brogue : 

"  For  the  love  of  heaven,  Peyton,  would  you  have 
good  and  honest  men  dying  in  your  room  of  the  drouth ! 
Where's  the  beer?" 

Philip  introduced  the  new-comers  to  Tom,  and  of 
him  who  had  early  announced  a  thirst,  he  said:  "This 
is  Mr.  Terence  Lynn ;  known  to  an  admiring  constitu 
ency  and  reading  public  as  Terry.  His  morals  are  ex 
cellently  white,  and  his  soul  inimitably  green.  I  am 
pleased  to  assure  you  of  his  distinguished  consideration. 
Having  a  fair  capacity  for  English  as  she  is  spoke  in 
the  United  States,  it  is  his  peculiar  will  to  superimpose 
an  Irish  brogue  on  his  speech  only  when  he  is  in  the 
presence  of  those  who  for  any  reason  he  admires.  My 
own  regard  for  this  gentleman,"  continued  Philip,  in  the 


218  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

voice  of  a  showman— Terence  was  furtively  examining 
the  sideboard  for  beer—"  arises  from  the  fact  that  he 
always  addressed  my  father  in  his  richest  brogue ;  it  is 
in  no  degree  lessened  by  the  fact  that  in  speaking  to  me 
alone  he  uses  only  his  purest  English  accent.  He  is 
the  yachting  reporter  of  the  Guardian,  and  is  said  to  have 
been  partially  tamed  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin." 

"  Your  father,  heaven  rest  his  soul !  Master  Peyton, 
was  a  fine  gentleman,  and  I  grieve  to  think  that  a  son  of 
his  should  talk  so  much  and  such  nonsense.  Have  you 
no  beer  at  all,  lad?  Heaven  sends  us  help,"  this  at  the 
sight  of  the  servant  bearing  a  tray  of  bottled  beer. 
Having  secured  a  bottle  and  glass,  Lynn  turned  toward 
Tom  and  said  with  an  oily  access  of  brogue :  "  As  I 
never  read  the  magazines,  sir,  nor  the  illustrated  papers 
and  peruse  only  that  page  of  the  Guardian  which  is 
enriched  with  my  own  productions,  I  have  not  that 
acquaintance  with  your  elegant  work  which  would  en 
able  me  to  judge  it  with  the  fairness  becoming  an  um 
pire  in  all  things.  'Tis  a  pity,  too,  for  I  have  a  dainty 
taste  in  art.  Indeed,  at  Trinity  I  was  distinguished  by 
the  faculty  as  one  having  a  glorious  future  before  him 
with  the  brush  and  palette.  Master  Peyton  has  inher 
ited  his  father's  genius  for  cooling  a  bottle  properly." 

A  tall,  smooth-faced  young  man,  as  tall  as  Tom  but 
stouter,  and  with  sloping  shoulders  and  a  generally  col 
lapsed  appearance,  who  had  been  introduced  as  Mr. 
Killip,  of  the  Guardian,  suddenly  interrupted  Lynn's 
prattle  by  asking  Tom,  in  a  languid  but  slightly  querul 
ous  tone,  "What  do  you  mean?" 

"/  mean?"  echoed  Tom,  a  little  startled.  He  was 
subconsciously  alive  to  the  fact  that  he  had  been  asked 
a  question  which  in  Mulberry  Bend  was  the  conventional 
form  of  challenge  to  a  fight.  Mr.  Killip  looked  earnest 


A  Night  at  Home  and  Abroad.  219 

but  not  pugnacious.  He  repeated,  "  Yes,  Mr.  Lyon, 
what  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  don't  quite  tumble — I  don't  quite  understand  you, " 
said  Tom. 

"  What  does  your  work  mean?"  Killip  repeated  insist 
ently. 

"Why— a— I  don't  believe  I've  thought  of  that." 

"  Yes,  you  have, "  said  Killip,  "  you  must  have  thought 
of  it.  No  one  does  creative  work  until  he  has  decided 
what  it  is  to  mean.  Your  work  means  for  truth,  does 
it  not?  Can  you  deny  it?" 

"Well,"  said  Tom,  bewildered,  and  trying  not  to 
laugh,  "  it  may,  but  I  am  honest  when  I  tell  you  I  have 
not  thought  of  it  in  that  way." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  said  Killip,  sorrowfully,  "you 
mean  your  work  to  make  for  truth  or  else  you  would  not 
do  the  work  you  are  doing.  I  should  like  to  call  at  your 
studio  and  talk  with  you  about  this :  I  consider  it  vastly 
important."  Tom  invited  Mr.  Killip  to  call. 

There  was  some  supper  served  by  the  manifestly 
amazed  Hazelhurst  servant,  and  then  smoking  and  shop 
talk.  An  artist,  Mr.  Norman,  the  first  American 
painter  to  discover  that  everything  in  nature  is  purple 
as  to  color — everything  except  such  as  happens  to  be 
brick  red — and  who  had  been  one  of  Tom's  instructors  in 
the  Art  League,  brought  Tom  out  famously  in  the  shop 
talk.  Mr.  Norman,  who  is  quite  a  sane  and  sensible 
man  to  meet  in  his  own  person,  in  spite  of  the  violent 
insanity  of  his  palette,  was  better  acquainted  with  Tom 
on  his  mental  side  than  was  Philip  even,  and  as  he  was 
proud  of  his  pupil,  he  took  a  pride  in  drawing  him  out. 
Tom  was  not  an  adept  at  this  sort  of  exercise,  and  in 
deed  never  discovered  Norman's  intention,  so  gradually 
was  he  led  to  express  himself  at  greater  and  greater 


22O  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

length,  and  with  more  and  more  conviction,  until  sud 
denly  he  stopped,  blushing  like  a  girl  to  find  that  he 
alone  was  talking  and  all  the  others  listening,  and  lis 
tening  intently. 

"There!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Killip,  with  as  near  ani 
mation  as  he  ever  approached,  "  I  knew  I  was  right:  I 
knew  you  were  making  for  truth,  were  a  veritist  in  art." 

There  was  a  laugh  at  this,  in  which  Tom  joined,  and 
then  said:  "Well,  you  see,  Mr.  Killip,  I  never  thought 
out  what  I  'meant'  before,  and  I  did  not  know  when  you 
asked  me." 

As  the  Guardian  men  walked  over  toward  Broadway 
together,  Terence  Lynn  said  to  Killip,  speaking  without 
a  trace  of  brogue :  "  If  that  Mr.  Lyon  is  a  product  of  the 
tenements,  as  Peyton  says  he  is,  I'm  going  to  start  a 
movement  to  colonize  all  the  art  critics  in  the  slums, 
and  make  them  live  there  until  they  learn  not  to  talk 
like  mystics." 

"Well,  my  auburn-haired  child,  how  do  you  feel?" 
Philip  asked  Tom  when  they  were  alone. 

"  As  if  I  had  been  having  a  scrap,  but  with  my  brains 
instead  of  my  fists,"  Tom  replied. 

It  was  because  his  brains  were  in  a  pleasurable 
tumult  which  he  knew  would  keep  him  from  sleep, 
that  Tom  walked  past  his  studio  building  on  to  Broad 
way  and  down  that  strangely  quiet  thoroughfare.  It 
was  after  two  o'clock — the  Guardian  men  had  been  late 
in  arriving,  of  course — and  the  occasional  cable  cars 
glided  quietly  along  without  the  clanging  bells  which 
denote  the  day's  ceaseless  struggle  through  the  crowded 
street;  now  and  then  rumbled  along  a  top-heavy  vege 
table  wagon  from  Staten  Island  with  driver  fast  asleep, 
or  one  of  those  ridiculous  circus  wagons  in  which  it 
pleases  the  government  to  transport  the  mail  in  cities; 


OUTCASTS. 
"Who  would  turn  robbers  if  the  stranger  seemed  timid." — Page  221. 


A  Night  at  Home  and  Abroad.  221 

a  few  carts  dashing  up-town  with  papers  containing  "  to 
morrow's"  news  for  those  who  in  the  Tenderloin  dis 
trict  were  yet  wearing  out  "yesterday;"  these  were  all 
that  kept  Broadway  from  being  deserted  at  that  hour. 
On  the  sidewalk  Tom  met  an  occasional  policeman,  and 
a  few  tramps  and  thieves  who  seemed  worn  out  with  the 
night,  and  to  wish  another  day's  sun  would  come. 
These  were  all  the  dregs  left  at  that  hour  of  the  bril 
liant,  rushing,  noisy  torrent  of  Broadway's  day. 

At  Canal  street  Tom  turned  east,  and  at  Mulberry, 
south.  He  had  no  fixed  purpose.  The  electric  life 
there  is  in  that  morning  hour  for  some  temperaments 
affected  him,  and  he  was  as  awake  as  one  is  after  a 
morning  bath.  He  was  thinking  of  Carminella — but 
when  was  he  not? — and  the  old  associations  where  he 
was  with  her  so  much,  was  so  often  her  protector,  drew 
him  on.  Mulberry  street  was  less  deserted  than  Broad 
way;  there  were  more  outcasts  eddied  about  there:  more 
tramps,  more  thieves,  more  lurking  evil-doers,  more 
helpless,  homeless  ones;  more  beggars  who  would  turn 
robbers  if  the  stranger  from  whom  they  solicited  seemed 
timid.  Some  of  those  approached  Tom,  but  his  calm 
indifference  turned  them  aside  wondering  why  so  well- 
dressed  a  man  should  seem  so  much  at  home  there. 
Sometimes  from  a  cellar-way  would  come  the  sound  of 
voices  and  the  whining  notes  of  an  accordion ;  and  he 
knew  that  an  Italian  ship  had  arrived  that  day  and  some 
of  its  immigrant  passengers  were  stored  in  that  cellar 
with  their  baggage,  to  sleep— if  they  could— to  drink 
stale  beer  and  sing  and  get  drunk,  until  niches  could 
be  found  next  day  for  their  housing. 

As  he  neared  the  entrance  to  his  old,  well-remembered 
court,  a  man  emerged  from  it  and  turned  slowly  down 
toward  Park  street.  Tom  recognized  him  as  his  foster- 


222  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

brother  Bill.  He  had  not  seen  him  in  a  long  time,  not 
since  Dan  had  finally  cast  Bill  off.  There  had  never 
been  any  intimacy  between  Tom  and  his  foster-brother, 
for  Bill  had  almost  entirely  deserted  Dan's  roof  when 
Tom  was  a  baby.  The  younger  man  had  frequently 
helped  the  other,  had  tried  to  induce  him  to  do  better 
by  himself,  and  they  had  never  quarrelled.  Tom  turned 
back  when  he  saw  the  other,  but  he  had  walked  only  a 
short  distance  when  it  occurred  to  him  that  Bill  might 
not  know  they  had  left  the  Bend,  and  had  gone  to  the 
old  house  for  help,  perhaps  even  for  a  bed,  lacking  one 
anywhere  else. 

At  this  thought  Tom  turned  quickly  but  Bill  was  not 
in  sight.  He  hurried  down  the  Bend  to  Park  street,  and 
there  he  saw  Bill  just  turning  the  corner  into  Mott 
street — into  Chinatown.  That  one  glance  made  him  run 
up  the  hill,  for  he  thought  Bill — athletic  Bill — walked  as 
if  he  were  weak,  perhaps  with  hunger,  Tom's  reproving 
heart  said.  He  reached  Mott  street  just  in  time  to  see 
his  foster-brother  turn  into  the  entrance  which  he  knew 
led  to  an  opium-smoking  resort — and  worse.  He 
passed  the  entrance,  but  did  not  go  in.  He  knew  who 
Bill  would  meet  there.  He  had  good  reason  to  remem 
ber  that  entrance  later. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

THE    SECRET    OF    AN    OPIUM   DEN. 

THE  entrance  Bill  Williams — Dan  Lyon's  foster-son 
had  never  taken  the  name  of  Lyon — turned  into  was 
reached  by  a  narrow,  worn  pair  of  stone  steps  running 
up  alongside  the  front  of  an  old,  three-story,  red  brick 
building.  The  basement  and  first  floor  were  occupied 
by  Chinese  merchants  who  dealt  in  the  products  of  China ; 
consisting  exclusively,  judging  from  the  odors,  and  the 
condition  of  the  stairs  and  halls,  of  fish,  flesh,  and  fowl, 
preserved  in  grease. 

The  second  floor  was  occupied  by  the  dining-room 
and  kitchen  of  a  Chinese  restaurant,  largely  patronized 
by  white  criminals,  men  and  women.  The  women  one 
saw  in  that  restaurant  were  nearly  all  young,  for  they 
did  not  last  long  in  the  life  of  which  that  restaurant  was 
a  part,  and  the  recruits  were  little  more  than  children- 
rebels  against  the  sweaters'  tasks. 

On  the  third  floor,  in  the  front,  with  windows  open 
ing  on  an  iron  balcony  overlooking  the  street,  is  what 
is  called  there  a  "  Joss  temple. "  In  the  rear  of  this  room 
is  a  hideous,  squat  grimacing  figure  before  which  in 
cense  sticks  are  always  burning.  The  priests  (if  they 
are  priests  of  the  temple  who  appear  out  of  some  half- 
lighted  corner  of  the  room,  noiselessly  and  stealthily, 
and  startle  sight-seeing  visitors)  make  a  revenue  by  sell 
ing  a  cent's  worth  of  the  incense  sticks  for  twenty  five 
cents.  Back  of  the  temple  a  door  leads  from  the  hall- 
19  223 


224  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

way  into  a  little  cubby-hole  of  an  office.  In  this  office 
there  is  a  counter  extending  from  wall  to  wall,  and 
behind  that  is  a  door  leading  to  a  dark  room  beyond. 
Back  of  this  counter  and  in  front  of  the  second  door 
from  eight  or  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  until  nearly 
daylight,  a  Chinaman  sits  in  a  space  which  allows  only 
room  for  him  and  a  narrow  passage  to  the  room  beyond 
when  he  lifts  a  gate  in  the  counter  to  admit  a  customer. 
The  customers  of  that  Chinese  functionary  are  opium- 
smokers,  and  their  occupations,  honest  and  otherwise, 
keep  them  abroad  late  at  night;  in  some  instances 
until  the  awful  craving  of  the  habit  drags  them  to  the 
den,  even  though  their  occupation  may  be  no  less  ex 
citing  than  trying  to  escape  from  the  police.  "The 
habit"  is  the  term  the  smokers  use  to  express  a  recur 
rence  of  the  craving  for  the  drug,  and  the  habit  lays  a 
stronger  hold  upon  its  victims  than  anything  except 
death. 

So  the  man  who  sits  in  the  office  has  pretty  regular 
customers,  and  he  gets  to  know  them  and  their  callings 
pretty  well,  too;  and  he  is  proud  of  their  acquaintance, 
which  is  singular,  for  he  is  not  and  never  was  a  profes 
sional  thief.  In  fact,  the  only  thing  to  speak  of  seriously 
Chung  ever  stole  was  Mark  Waters'  pocketbook,  on  the 
occasion  when  he  went  to  Waters'  office  to  pay  Uncle 
Fong's  rent  for  his  premises  in  the  building  belonging 
to  Philip  Ormsbee  Peyton,  Estate  of.  He  was  a  clerk 
then  in  Uncle  Fong's  store ;  but  the  sudden  possession 
in  cash  of  more  than  half  a  year's  salary,  for  there  were 
nearly  a  hundred  dollars  in  the  purse,  gave  Chung  the 
longed-for  capital  to  engage  in  an  occupation  more  to 
his  taste.  He  bought  an  interest  in  the  opium  smoking 
plant,  ostensibly  conducted  as  a  lodging-house,  on  the 
floor  with  the  Joss  temple. 


The  Secret  of  an  Opium  Den.  225 

News  of  the  theft,  and  particularly  the  more  interest 
ing  fact  that  the  man  who  had  been  stolen  from  had 
offered  a  large  reward  for  the  recovery  of  the  purloined 
papers;  and  that  an  innocent  man,  one  Tom  Lyon  of  the 
Tivoli  Theatre,  had  been  taken  to  police  headquarters 
on  suspicion  of  being  the  thief — this  news  was  eager 
ly  discussed  by  the  criminals  with  whom  Chung  smoked 
opium  that  very  night.  How  did  they  learn  the  news? 
Well,  some  of  the  thieves  were  also  stool  pigeons,  sneak 
agents  of  Headquarters'  detectives,  and  on  more  or  less 
intimate  terms  with  them.  Perhaps  that  accounted  for 
so  much  being  known,  and  besides,  innocent  looking 
Chung,  when  he  heard  the  discussion,  told  his  story; 
how  he  had  arrived  at  the  Niantic  building  a  few 
minutes  after  the  discovery  of  the  theft;  and  he  was 
naturally  anxious  to  learn  more  about  it,  especially 
about  the  reward  for  the  papers. 

When  he  learned  of  the  reward,  Chung,  with  tireless 
patience,  cut  Mark  Waters'  pocket-book  into  a  thousand 
little  pieces,  and  scattered  the  indistinguishable  frag 
ments  in  the  gutters  of  Chinatown  as  he  lazily  strolled 
along.  The  papers  he  folded  into  one  small  compact 
thin  wad,  and  hid  them  in  a  hollow  of  the  thick  sole  of 
one  shoe,  as  he  had  hidden  opium  in  both  of  his  shoes 
when  he  came  into  San  Francisco  on  the  ship  from 
China;  thereby  smuggling  not  a  large  portion  to  be 
sure,  but  the  thousand  other  Chinese  who  walked  off  the 
ship  with  him  all  walked  in  shoes  similarly  charged, 
and  the  total  was  considerable. 

For  many  months  Chung  listened  to  all  that  the 
thieves  had  to  say  about  crimes  and  rewards,  but  never 
heard  that  Waters  had  offered  anything  for  the  return 
of  the  papers  by  the  thief :  the  reward  was  for  their  re 
covery  by  the  police,  and  at  that  time  Chung  did  not 


226  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

know  how  to  turn  such  a  condition  of  affairs  into  profit. 
It  was  not  long  after  Chung  became  part  owner  and 
manager  of  the  opium  den  that  he  found  it  belonged  to 
his  business  to  establish  friendly  relations  with  the 
police.  Such  places  as  his,  being  unlawful,  have  always 
been  included  in  the  list  of  those  which  are  permitted 
to  flourish  only  when  they  are  a  source  of  profit  to  the 
officials  sworn  to  suppress  them.  Chung  submitted  to 
the  blackmail  (indeed  he  could  not  do  otherwise  and 
conduct  an  unlawful  business)  with  the  smiling  philoso 
phy  of  his  people  when  dealing  with  a  ruling,  superior, 
Christian  race,  and  even  managed  to  secure  a  rebate  on 
the  extortion-money  wrung  from  him,  by  now  and  then 
notifying  the  police  of  the  hiding-place  of  criminals  who 
were  "wanted." 

Late  on  the  night  before  Philip  Peyton  had  Tom  and 
his  other  friends  in  his  new  rooms,  Bill  Williams,  white 
and  trembling,  dragged  himself  up  the  stairs  to  Chung's 
cubby-hole  office.  He  was  a  regular  patron  of  the  den, 
his  own  living-room  being  in  an  attic  overhead  where 
also  Chung's  room  was.  The  Chinaman,  after  a  mo 
ment's  glance  at  Bill,  opened  the  counter  gate  for  him 
and  handed  him  a  little  lacquer  tray  containing  a  smok 
er's  outfit :  the  pipe,  a  tiny  horn-box  of  opium,  the  lamp, 
and  the  needle  on  which  the  opium  is  cooked  over  the 
lamp.  Bill  took  the  tray  in  his  shaking  hands,  and 
asked  in  a  weak,  husky  voice: 

"Has  Molly  come  in?" 

"No,"  answered  Chung,  and  Bill  passed  through  the 
door  into  the  den  beyond.  The  den  was  a  rather  narrow 
room,  but  probably  fifteen  feet  long;  on  each  side  were 
two  sets  of  double  bunks:  that  is,  there  were  two  lower 
and  two  upper  bunks  on  each  side,  and  across  the  end 
of  the  room  were  one  upper  and  one  lower  bunk.  Each 


IN    THE    OPIUM     DEN. 
"Then  Bill  heard  Chung  come  to  the  door."— Page  226. 


The  Secret  of  an  Opium  Den.  227 

bunk  (they  were  nothing  more  than  wide  shelves)  was 
intended  for  the  accommodation  of  two  smokers,  lying 
down,  with  the  lamp  and  other  paraphernalia  of  the  out 
fit  between  them.  Nearly  every  shelf  was  occupied  by 
one  or  two  men  or  women,  all  in  the  profound  sleep  of 
the  opium  smoker,  when  Bill  entered.  He  hastily  pre 
pared  his  pipe  and  had  taken  the  four  or  five  long  deep 
draughts  by  which  a  smoker  exhausts  one  preparation, 
when  he  heard  Chung  in  conversation  with  a  man  whose 
voice  he  recognized.  It  was  a  police  official  known  as 
a  ward  man,  a  detective  attached  to  the  police  station  of 
that  precinct.  When  the  ward  man  entered  the  office 
Chung  handed  him  a  sealed  envelope  which  he  took  and 
placed  in  a  large  pocket-book  containing  other  envel 
opes.  It  may  have  been  the  resemblance  of  this  pocket- 
book  in  shape  and  size  and  color  to  one  that  Chung  vivid 
ly  remembered  which  prompted  him  to  ask  the  officer  if 
he  recalled  a  pocket-book  theft  in  the  Niantic  building. 
Bill  was  lying  on  the  shelf  nearest  the  door,  and  it  was 
hearing  this  question  which  made  him  lay  down  his 
pipe  and  listen  intently,  for  he  had  heard  of  the  suspi 
cion  against  Tom  Lyon  in  connection  with  that  theft. 

There  was  considerable  talk  between  the  Chinaman 
and  the  ward  man  before  the  latter  recalled  the  incident 
Chung  referred  to.  Then  Bill  heard  Chung  come  to 
the  door  and  slide  back  a  little  panel  which  gave  him 
a  view  of  the  den.  Bill  dropped  his  head  on  the  wooden 
block  which  served  as  a  pillow  to  his  shelf,  and  affected 
the  deep  sleep  of  an  overcome  smoker.  Chung,  appar 
ently  satisfied  with  his  observation,  closed  the  panel, 
and  as  he  did  so  Bill  crept  to  the  door,  where,  through 
a  crevice  at  the  bottom  of  the  panel,  he  could  see  and 
hear  what  was  going  on  in  the  office.  Chung  in  a  lower 
voice  said  to  the  ward  man: 


228  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

"  Mebbe  Mista  Walta  pay  you  that  lewad  if  you  catch 
papers?"  The  ward  man  smiled  knowingly  and  an 
swered, 

"Maybe.     You  got  'em?" 

"No,  I  no  got  him,"  said  Chung,  "but  mebbe  I 
catch  him  if  you  catch  lewad.  You  find  out  arid  come 
back  to-mollow  night.  If  you  can  catch  lewad  mebbe 
Chung  can  catch  papers,  then  you  and  me  divide  lewad. " 

"You're  a  pretty  slick  Chink.  I'll  see  about  that  re 
ward." 

When  the  officer  had  departed,  Chung  took  from  a 
shelf  beneath  his  counter  just  such  a  pair  of  thick-soled 
shoes  as  he  had  on  his  feet.  He  selected  one  and  by 
a  little  effort  removed  its  sole.  It  had  been  hollowed 
out  and  it  contained  some  closely  folded  papers.  He 
examined  them  without  unfolding  them  as  he  had  a 
thousand  times  before,  wishing  he  could  read  their  con 
tents,  and  then  replaced  the  shoes  on  the  shelf.  As  he 
did  so  Bill  returned  to  his  bunk,  and  Molly,  the  woman 
he  had  inquired  for,  entered  the  office,  learned  from 
Chung  that  Bill  was  inside,  took  only  a  pipe  from  the 
Chinaman,  passed  through  the  door  into  the  den,  and 
threw  herself  down  on  the  bunk  by  the  side  of  the  ap 
parently  unconscious  Bill.  She  began  the  preparation 
of  a  pipe  when  Bill's  hand  crept  to  her  throat,  and  he 
whispered  just  above  his  breath,  "  Don't  smoke!" 

"My  God,  Bill,  I  must!  The  habit  is  on  me,"  she 
gasped.  His  fingers  tightened  on  her  throat  so  that  she 
could  not  speak  further. 

"Don't  speak  and  don't  smoke,  I  tell  you!"  he  whis 
pered.  "The  habit  is  on  me  too,  but  I've  held  off  for 
half  an  hour." 

The  light  from  the  opium  lamp  showed  her  his  white 
face  drawn  and  twitching  with  the  agony  of  the  unsatis- 


The  Secret  of  an  Opium  Den.  229 

fied  desire  for  the  drug.  She  clenched  her  own  hands 
in  her  clothing  as  if  a  physical  obstacle  were  necessary 
to  keep  them  from  the  pipe,  glaring  at  her  companion  in 
wonder;  but  he  gave  no  explanation.  Thus  they  lay 
in  a  wretched  agony  of  desire  for  the  drug  until  they 
heard  Chung  close  the  outer  door  and  enter  the  den  for 
his  own  nightly  smoke.  Bill  again  simulated  sleep  and 
the  woman  obeying  his  signal  did  the  same,  as  Chung 
passed  by  them.  In  a  few  minutes  Bill,  stealthily  watch 
ing  the  Chinaman,  saw  the  pipe  drop  from  his  hand  and 
his  head  fall  back  in  stupor.  Then  he  noiselessly  let 
himself  into  the  office,  motioning  Molly  to  follow.  By 
the  light  of  his  opium  lamp  he  found  the  shoe,  obtained 
the  papers,  gave  them  to  Molly,  and  whispered  with 
his  mouth  close  to  her  ear,  "  Take  these  upstairs  and  hide 
them.  Then  come  back  and  smoke."  He  waited  in  the 
office,  prepared  to  head  off  Chung  if  the  Chinaman 
should  happen  to  be  aroused,  until  the  woman  returned, 
and  then  locked  the  inside  and  outside  doors  just  as  they 
had  been  fastened  by  Chung. 

The  next  day  Bill  and  Molly  crossed  the  Brooklyn 
Bridge  and  there  took  an  elevated  train,  going  neither 
of  them  knew  where.  Any  place  where  they  would  not 
be  known  was  what  Bill  sought.  A  short  distance  from 
the  end  of  the  road  they  found  a  field  where  they  would 
not  only  be  not  known  but  not  seen,  and  there  he  slowly 
and  laboriously  deciphered  the  letters,  which  Molly 
copied  with  pencil  and  paper,  as  Bill,  word  by  word, 
made  out  their  contents.  When  this  slow  work  was 
all  done,  Bill  told  Molly  to  read  her  copy  over  to  him, 
and  he  listened  attentively  and  with  closed  eyes  as  she 
did  so. 

"What  does  it  all  mean,  Bill?"  she  asked,  when  he 
had  remained  silent  for  a  long  time. 


230  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

"I  ain't  just  dead  on  t'  de  whole  game,  Molly,"  Bill 
answered,  thoughtfully,  "  but  I  tumbles  enough  t'  pipe 
dat  dis  Mark  Waters  would  be  up  against  it  hard  if 
Teresa  knowed  of  dese  letters." 

"Who's  Teresa?"  said  Molly,  with  sudden  jealous  in 
terest. 

Bill  did  not  care  to  explain  all  that  he  knew  about 
Teresa,  for  that  would  include  something  his  rela 
tionship  to  Dan  and  Tom  Lyon.  Of  that  in  late  years 
Bill  had  not  spoken.  He  bore  no  enmity  to  Dan,  for  he 
realized  that  Dan  had  cause  enough  to  disown  him  long 
before  he  did,  and  for  Tom  this  outcast  had  a  regard 
amounting  almost  to  affection.  It  was  about  the  only 
remnant  of  purity  and  honesty  left  in  his  perverse,  dis 
torted  nature.  He  had  sheltered  Tom  when  the  latter 
was'still  a  child  from  some  of  the  rough  knocks  unpro 
tected  childhood  receives  in  the  slums,  and  Tom  had 
not  only  been  kind  to  him  in  the  matter  of  giving  him 
money  many  times  in  later  years,  but  had  urged  his  way 
ward  foster-brother,  with  a  kindness  and  consideration 
no  one  else  had  ever  shown  him,  to  do  better  by  himself. 

"Who  is  Teresa?"  repeated  Molly,  angrily. 

"Can't  you  see  who  she  is?"  retorted  Bill  evasively. 
"  Didn't  you  just  read  de  letters?  Can't  you  see  she's 
de  wife  of  de  sucker  what  wrote  de  letter  from  Califor 
nia?  Dis  mug,  Waters,  has  been  collarin  all  de  boodle." 

"  How  do  you  know  he  collared  the  boodle?  How  do 
you  know  Teresa  didn't  get  it?"  said  Molly,  with  in 
creasing  jealousy  and  anger. 

"  If  she  got  de  boodle  would  she  be  lettin'  her  kid  do 
a  song  and  dance  on  de  Bowery?  Besides,  if  de  letters 
didn't  show  Waters  was  crooked  would  he  be  offerin'  de 
cops  a  tousand  dollars  for  em?" 

This  did  not  explain  much  to  Molly;  she  knew  noth- 


The  Secret  of  an  Opium  Den.  231 

ing  about  the  offer  of  reward,  nor  about  Teresa  and 
Carminella.  Molly  was  little  more  than  a  child  in  age, 
and  she  came  from  the  other  side  of  the  Bowery,  from 
Stanton  Street.  She  had  run  away  from  the  one  over 
crowded,  miserable  room  where  with  brothers  and 
sisters,  father  and  mother,  she  slaved  for  the  sweaters. 
She  had  met  Bill  in  the  life  into  which  she  had  quickly, 
he  gradually,  sunk,  but  while  he  was  still  a  heroic  figure 
in  that  life.  He  had  gained  renown  and  for  a  time  a 
livelihood  as  a  pugilist,  but  his  ability  to  meet  even 
the  poor  athletic  specimens  he  had  to  contend  against 
in  the  prize-fighting  resorts  in  the  lower  East  side  had 
been  undermined,  first  by  his  becoming  a  slave  of  the 
opium  habit  and  then  by  the  disease  which  kills  so  many 
pugilists — consumption.  He  yet  had  some  renown 
when  Molly  took  up  with  him,  and  because  she  loved 
him  she  clung  to  him  even  in  these  days  of  his  direst 
fortune. 

She  saw  that  it  was  useless  then  to  ask  any  more 
about  Teresa,  and  to  avoid  quarrelling  with  him  she 
changed  the  subject  by  asking: 

"Will  you  go  to  this  Waters,  and  claim  the  reward?" 

"  No,  Molly,  I  won't  do  it,"  he  replied,  kindly  enough 
now. 

"  I  wonder  you  wouldn't,  Bill.  If  we  had  that  money 
we  could  get  away  from — from  everything  there.  We 
might  come  and  live  out  in  the  country  like  this  till  you 
got  well  of  your  cough,  and  got  strong  again." 

Bill  turned  and  put  his  hand  on  the  girl's  arm  so  gent 
ly  that  it  surprised  her  at  first  and  then  made  the  tears 
come  to  her  eyes.  "I'll  tell  you,  Molly,  "he  said,  "why 
I  can't  do  it.  Dere's  as  square  a  boy  as  ever  lived  was 
pinched  by  de  cops  for  stealin'  dis  stuff.  I  knowed  he 
never  done  it,  'cause  he's  dead  level.  Well,  dat  boy  is 


232  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

what  dey  calls  my  foster-brodder.  If  I  goes  t'  dis 
Waters  and  asks  for  dis  reward  he'll  tink,  sure,  Tom 
stole  de  stuff  and  passed  it  t'  me.  No,  I  wouldn't  queer 
Tom  dat  way  for  more  dan  a  tousand.  I'm  going  t' 
take  dis  stuff  t'  Tom  t'night.  It  may  do  him  some 
good  t'  have  it;  anyway  he  can  do  some  good  t'  Teresa 
wid  de  letters.  We'll  keep  de  copy  you've  made,  and 
p'raps  you  can  make  some  money  out  of  de  game  wid- 
out  queerin'  Tom.  I'll  see  about  dat." 

It  was  late  that  night  that  Bill  had  gone  to  Mulberry 
Bend.  He  learned  there  for  the  first  time  that  the 
Lyons  and  Corteses  had  left  the  Bend;  that  was  all  the 
strangers  in  the  tenements  could  tell  him,  and  it  was 
when  Bill  was  leaving  there  that  Tom  saw  him.  Bill 
intended  to  go  to  the  Tivoli  and  inquire  Tom's  address, 
but  the  next  day  he  could  not  leave  his  bed,  nor  could 
he  for  many  days.  Molly  watched  by  him  and  nursed 
him  as  well  as  she  could,  but  there  was  no  money  to 
get  medicine,  not  even  opium  nor  food.  One  afternoon 
she  left  him,  taking  the  copies  of  the  stolen  letters  with 
her,  and  went  to  Mark  Waters'  office. 

"  You  must  tell  me  what  your  business  is  with  Mr. 
Waters,"  said  the  clerk,  eying  the  thin,  pale,  shabbily 
dressed  girl  suspiciously. 

"I'll  tell  my  business  to  him,"  said  Molly,  defiantly. 
"  You  can  tell  him  if  he  don't  see  me  he'll  be  sorry  for 
it,  that's  all!" 

Waters,  who  heard  this  in  his  private  office,  came  to 
the  door,  looked  at  Molly  sharply,  and  seemed  to  be  re 
lieved  that  she  was  no  one  he  had  ever  known.  He 
motioned  her  into  his  office,  closed  the  door  after  her 
and  then  asked  gruffly: 

"Well  now,  what's  your  game?     Be  quick  about  it." 

"  My  game  is,"  Molly  said,  looking  at  Waters  straight 


The  Secret  of  an  Opium  Den.  233 

and  hard,  "  to  get  a  hundred  dollars  from  you. "  Waters 
was  startled  more  by  her  manner  than  her  demand. 

"Perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind  telling  me  what  your 
security  is,"  he  said,  making  a  poor  attempt  to  sneer. 

"That's  fair  enough,"  Molly  responded,  and  she 
handed  him  her  copies  of  the  letters.  He  was  standing 
when  he  received  them,  but  he  sank  into  a  chair  after  one- 
hasty  glance  at  them.  He  glared  at  the  letters  so  long 
in  silence  that  Molly  said,  finally,  "They  ain't  so  hard 
to  read,  I  guess.  I'm  pretty  good  at  writing.  I  went 
to  school  until  I  was  ten." 

Waters  looked  up  and  tried  to  steady  his  voice  as  he 
said:  "I  don't  know  whether  I'll  call  a  policeman 
to  take  you  out  of  here,  or  put  you  out  myself  and  let 
you  go." 

This  speech  taught  him  something  of  the  nature  of 
the  girl.  She  laughed  at  the  man  coolly  and  insolently. 
Then  she  sat  down  in  a  chair  and  said,  "You  can  suit 
yourself  about  that.  If  you  call  a  cop  in  I'll  take  him 
where  the  real  letters  are.  If  you  put  me  out  I'll  take 
the  real  letters  to  that  Teresa." 

Waters  jumped  to  his  feet  and  rushed  at  the  girl 
threateningly.  She  rose  without  quailing  and  he  stopped 
short  as  she  said,  and  it  was  she  who  threatened  then : 

"I  want  you  to  be  quick  about  it,  too,  for  I'm  in  a 
hurry.  See?" 

The  blood  suddenly  mounted  into  Waters'  face  in  an 
ominous  manner,  and  he  reeled,  caught  himself  by  the 
back  of  his  chair  and  sank  down  heavily.  Molly  watched 
him  closely  and  anxiously:  she  thought  he  was  dying, 
but  there  was  no  pity  in  her  look  as  she  saw  him  tear 
open  his  collar,  and  heard  him  gasp.  It  was  a  minute 
before  he  recovered  so  that  he  could  speak,  and  she  saw 
then  that  he  was  more  afraid  of  death  than  of  her.  His 


234  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

eyes  wandered  about  the  room  wildly  before  they 
seemed  to  find  her.  Then  he  said  in  a  cowed,  weak 
voice : 

"  You  wanted  a  hundred?" 

Molly  nodded,  and  he  counted  out  the  money  for  her 
and  handed  it  to  her  unsteadily,  asking,  "  I  get  the 
original  letters  for  this?" 

The  girl  walked  to  the  hall  door  and  opened  it  before 
she  turned  and  replied ; 

"  Next  time — perhaps." 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

NEARING   THE    RAPIDS   OF   LIFE. 

MOLLY  hurried  from  the  Niantic  building  to  the  office 
of  a  doctor  whose  sign  she  remembered  on  East  Broad 
way. 

"  What  will  you  charge  to  go  and  see  a  man  who  is 
sick?"  she  asked  anxiously  when  she  met  the  doctor. 

"Five  dollars,"  he  replied,  and  added  after  a  glance 
at  the  girl,  "in  advance." 

Molly  paid  him  the  money  and  told  him  the  address. 
He  said  he  would  call  in  half  an  hour,  and  as  Molly 
hurried  down  the  street  to  a  delicatessen  store,  she  ex 
ulted  while  passing  a  charity  station  where  medical  ad 
vice  and  medicines  are  given  free.  I  cannot  explain 
why  it  is  that  in  the  district  of  the  poorest  tenements 
there  are  many  like  Molly — wicked,  perverse,  uncon 
trolled  as  she  was — who  would  rather  die,  more,  had 
rather  see  those  they  love  die,  than  accept  aid  which 
might  save  life;  I  know,  too,  there  are  many  more  who 
would  rather  die  than  pay  for  aid,  even  some  having 
money  wherewith  to  pay;  and  that,  too,  I  cannot  ex 
plain  ;  nor  could  Molly  if  you  asked  her. 

She  bought  many  things  for  Bill,  from  the  delica 
tessen  store,  a  fruit  stand,  a  wine  store,  and  hurried  to 
their  room  in  the  attic  over  the  opium  den,  with  her 
arms  full  of  bundles  and  packages. 

"  I've  got  a  lot  of  good  grub,  Bill ;  and  fruit,  and  wine, 
and  a  paid  doctor  is  coming  soon,  and  you'll  be  well 

235 


236  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

enough  to  fight  again  the  first  thing  you  know!"  she 
cried  eagerly,  as  she  entered  the  room. 

"  How  much  did  you  touch  Waters  for?"  Bill  asked 
huskily. 

"For  ahun." 

"  Den  I've  got  t'  make  a  hun  before  I  croak,  and  pay 
it  t'  Teresa;  for  dat  boodle  you  got  from  Waters  belongs 
t'  Teresa,  and  not  to  us,"  Bill  said. 

Molly  looked  at  him  in  amazement  and  then  asked, 
"What's  worrying  you,  Bill?" 

"  Nottin  much,  Molly ;  only  dis  game  ain't  right,  and 
I  want  t'  square  tings  before  I  goes. " 

"Don't,  Bill!  don't!  Don't  talk  about  going.  It 
would  kill  me,  Bill,  sure."  Molly  threw  herself  on  the 
floor  by  the  side  of  the  blanket  on  which  Bill  lay,  and 
sobbed. 

"Don't  get  rattled,  Molly,"  Bill  said,  stroking  her 
hair.  "I've  beentinkin',  and— well,  we  mustn't  touch 
Waters  for  any  more  dough." 

"  It  wouldn't  do  no  good,  Bill,  to  try  him  again.  He 
had  a  fit  and  near  died  this  time.  He'd  die  another 
time,  sure." 

Molly  was  quite  right  about  the  effect  of  her  visit  on 
Mark  Waters.  He  sat  silent  and  weak  and  shaking  so 
long  in  his  chair  that  the  clerk  gave  up  hope  of  catching 
his  dinner  train  to  the  suburbs,  and  waited  in  resigned 
misery  for  some  sign.  He  certainly  lacked  spirit,  for 
when  Waters  called  him,  and  asked  him  almost  humbly 
to  help  him  downstairs  and  get  a  carriage  for  him,  the 
clerk  forgave  him  years  of  meanness  and  insolence,  and 
pitied  him. 

In  the  carriage  in  which  Waters  rode  all  the  way  up 
town  to  his  apartment,  he  sat  so  huddled  in  the  seat, 
so  limp,  and  utterly  collapsed,  he  looked  to  the  driver, 


Nearing  the  Rapids  of  Life.  237 

who  knew  him,  like  a  much  smaller  man,  as  he  faintly 
gave  the  order:  "Drive  me  home;  slowly,  carefully." 
For  a  long  time  he  could  not  make  orderly  thought 
out  of  the  confused  jumble  of  terrors  which  tangled  and 
affrighted  his  mind.  Only  an  hour  before  Molly's 
visit  to  his  office  he  had  received  a  letter  from  a  San 
Francisco  detective  agency  to  which  he  had  applied  for 
information  about  Ettore  Cesarotti,  and  that  letter  said: 

" Our  operator  has  returned  from  Blue  Canon,  and  informs  us 
that  Cesarotti,  who  is  reported  to  be  a  very  sick  man,  is  really  a 
half-owner  in  the  mine  known  as  the '  Porterhouse  Claim, '  which, 
as  we  informed  you  in  our  last  report,  is  being  negotiated  for  by 
a  party  of  capitalists.  The  price  is  kept  a  secret,  but  as  you  will 
see  by  the  enclosed  newspaper  clippings  it  is  an  important  mining 
deal,  and  the  sum  involved  is  probably  very  large.  Cesarotti 's 
partner  is  a  New  Yorker  named  George  Peyton,  whose  agent  in 
the  deal  is  a  wealthy  merchant  named  Horace  Masters." 

Cesarotti 's  partner  George  Peyton!  Had  Ettore  told 
Peyton  of  his  dealings  with  Mark  Waters?  Their  agent, 
Horace  Masters,  who  had,  Waters  knew,  set  investiga 
tions  on  foot  regarding  his,  Waters',  affairs,  which  were 
already  embarrassing  and  threatening  him ! 

Waters,  as  he  crouched  in  the  carriage,  tried  to  recall 
and  consider  all  the  dangers  in  his  path.  Cesarotti,  Pey 
ton,  Masters,  one  or  all  of  them  must  inevitably  expose 
his  embezzlement  of  the  money  sent  for  Teresa ;  Masters 
he  knew  was  already  on  a  trail  which  would  lead  to  other 
exposures ;  George  Peyton  would  return  and  investigate 
as  he  never  had  the  real  affairs  of  the  estate  of  his 
father.  Was  not  that  enough  that  he  must  be  tortured 
by  this  unknown  demon  of  a  woman  who  suddenly  ap 
pears  to  blackmail  him  with  the  threat  of  those  stolen 
letters!  And  then  Carminella!  Even  all  his  conceit 
did  not  blind  him  to  the  fact  that  he  had  made  no  pro- 

20 


238  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

gress  toward  winning  her;  and  in  his  tortured  mind  to 
win  her  meant  a  relief  from  all  his  close-crowding 
dangers.  And  even  beyond  that  he  longed  for  Carmi- 
nella  so  that  he  would  have  striven  to  win — though  not 
to  wed — her,  even  if  he  knew  nothing  of  Ettore  Cesa- 
rotti's  fortune,  and  had  not  the  possession  of  Carmi- 
nella  represented  an  end  to  the  perils  closing  in  upon  him 
from  all  sides.  But  over,  and  greater  than  all  these 
terrors  and  torments  was  the  black  shadow  of  the  death 
he  felt  had  come  so  close  to  him  that  day. 

He  was  recovered  somewhat  at  the  end  of  the  long, 
slow  ride  up-town,  and  when  he  reached  his  apartments 
and  drank  glass  after  glass  of  whiskey  as  he  dressed 
he  was  defiant,  if  not  brave  of  heart  again. 

At  his  late  dinner  he  met  the  manager  of  the  Mayfair 
Theatre,  who  told  him  that  Marie  Leon  had  arrived  from 
London  that  day  and  had  ordered  rehearsals  to  begin 
on  the  following  Monday.  "  Marie  Leon  was  immense 
ly  pleased  at  our  engagement  of  La  Cortese  when  she 
learned  that  the  girl  was  the  daughter  of  the  woman, 
Teresa,  who  used  to  be  in  the  ballet  with  her.  By  the 
way>  she  wanted  me  to  send  word  to  this  Teresa  and  La 
Cortese,  to  call  on  her  at  her  hotel  to-morrow.  I  must 
send  a  messenger,"  concluded  the  manager. 

"Never  mind,"  Waters  said,  "I  shall  see  them  to 
night  at  the  Tivoli,  and  I'll  give  them  the  message." 

The  manager  leered  knowingly  and  laughed  as  he 
said,  "  You  seem  to  be  playing  a  star  part  in  that  family. " 

Waters  looked  pleased,  and  made  no  denial  of  what 
he  knew  to  be  the  manager's  meaning.  He  drove  to 
the  Tivoli,  and  in  his  liquor-excited  brain  he  was  con 
scious  of  the  thought  that  he  would  be  glad  if  the  chance 
came  to  carry  Carminella  off  with  him  in  the  carriage. 
Girls  had  been  won  so,  he  knew,  even  in  New  York — 


Nearing  the  Rapids  of  Life.  239 

but  not  with  a  Teresa  guarding  them,  he  thought,  curs 
ing. 

He  met  them,  Dominico,  Teresa,  Carminella,  in  front 
of  the  theatre,  and  delivered  Marie  Leon's  message. 
"  I  have  some  business  to  talk  with  Mr.  Cortese,"  he  said 
then,  "so  let  us  all  drive  up-town  and  have  supper 
together." 

Teresa  had  noticed  that  when  Carminella  touched 
Waters'  proffered  hand  she  sharply  withdrew  her  own 
and  quickly  stepped  back.  Teresa  replied  to  Waters' 
invitation  :  "  No ;  Carminella  and  I  have  supper  at  home, 
now,"  and  she  started  with  Carminella  toward  a  car. 
She  saw  the  look  of  disappointment  on  Dominico's  face, 
and  added  "  Dominico  will  go  with  you.  We  must  go 
home." 

Dominico,  more  gorgeous  even  than  when  we  saw 
him  last,  as  to  jewelry,  vest  pattern,  and  scarf,  puffed 
with  pride  as  Waters  surlily  motioned  him  into  the  car 
riage;  and  he  purled  nearly  to  the  explosive  point  when 
his  host  conducted  him  into  the  gaudy  cafe  of  a  third- 
rate  hotel — into  which  Dominico  would  not  have  pre 
sumed  to  go  alone — and  ordered  supper. 

"Your  wife  is  damned  careful  about  the  girl,  Minico," 
Waters  said. 

"Sure,"  answered  Dominico,  "and  the  wife  is  right. 
Who  would  marry  the  girl  if  the  mother  was  not  care 
ful?" 

"  But  who  can  marry  her  with  never  a  chance  to  speak 
to  her  for  himself?  A  man  may  not  like  to  make  love 
before  a  girl's  whole  family." 

Dominico,  who  was  proudly  convinced  that  Waters 
was  one  of  the  richest  and  greatest  men  in  New  York, 
looked  at  his  companion  in  red  perspiring  delight,  as  he 
slowly  comprehended  Waters' meaning.  "I  suppose," 


240  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

he  said,  grinning  encouragingly  at  Waters,  "  a  girl  must 
marry  some  time;  and  I  guess  the  mother  isn't  so  afraid 
of  a  man  if  she  thinks  the  man  means  marriage." 

"  Dominico,"  said  Waters,  leaning  over  the  table  and 
whispering  hoarsely  to  the  Italian,  "I'll  give  you  a 
thousand  dollars  the  day  I  get  Carminella." 

The  Italian  gasped  with  delight  and  amazement,  but 
suddenly  drew  back  and  said  stoutly,  "  But  a  real 
marriage,  Mr.  Waters;  an  honest  wedding  with  the 
priest!" 

"I  mean  nothing  else,"  Waters  said  seriously. 

That  night  Dominico  told  the  great,  the  good,  the 
wonderful  news  to  Teresa,  and  burst  into  tears  of  an 
noyance  when  Teresa,  instead  of  being  overcome  with 
delight,  said  slowly : 

"  Well,  we  will  see.  We  will  see  what  Carminella 
says;  we  will  find  out  about  Mr.  Waters." 

"But  Mr.  Waters  is  a  great  and  a  rich  man!"  cried 
Dominico.  "Santa  Maria!  is  it  that  you  want  a  prince 
to  marry  your  daughter?" 

"  Two  things  I  want.  I  want  an  honest  man :  and  I 
want  a  man  Carminella  will  like  to  marry,"  answered 
Teresa,  unmoved,  for  she  had  begun  to  doubt  her  first 
impression  as  to  Waters'  greatness. 

"  Then  is  Mr.  Waters  a  thief,  that  you  do  not  say 
'yes'?"  demanded  Dominico.  "Do  thieves  come  to  the 
theatre  in  a  carriage  and  take  me  to  a  grand  hotel  and 
order  champagne?  Oh,  that  Riccodonna  had  seen  me 
drinking  that  champagne!  But  you,  Teresa,  I  have 
always  loved!  (Dominico  had  drunk  -a  great  deal  of  the 
champagne)  want  your  Minico  to  go  back  to  Mulberry 
Bend  and  Carminella  to  the  sweat  shop.  Why  will  you 
be  like  this  when  we  might  always  drink  champagne? — 
and  Riccodonna  could  see  us!" 


Nearing  the  Rapids  of  Life.  241 

But  Teresa  would  only  say,  "  If  he  is  great  and  rich  he 
can  prove  that  to  me:  and  if  Carminella  likes  him  then 
it  may  be  well.  We  will  say  nothing  until  we  talk  with 
Dan  Lyon." 

"  Dan  Lyon,  you  think,  knows  everything  and  Minico, 
poor  Minico!  he  knows  nothing!"  wept  her  husband,  as 
he  rolled  a  cigarette  with  brown  paper. 

"  Dan  Lyon  was  the  keeper  of  the  Niantic  building, 
and  he  knows  whether  Mr.  Waters  is  a  gentleman  or 
only  a  Yankee  Doodle,"  Teresa  answered,  crushing 
Dominico  into  smoky  silence. 

Nothing  was  said  to  Carminella  about  the  intentions 
of  Mark  Waters.  She  and  Teresa  called  on  Marie  Leon 
the  next  day,  and  busy  days  followed.  There  were  re 
hearsals  at  the  Mayfair,  visits  to  the  costumers  and  the 
photographer,  and  visits  to  Tom  Lyon's  studio,  for  he 
had  many  orders  for  drawings  of  Carminella  for  the 
newspapers.  There  was  a  sudden  breaking  forth  of  long 
paragraphs  about  the  new  dancer  who  was  to  appear  in 
the  forthcoming  great  production  at  the  Mayfair,  which 
was  interesting  as  signalling  the  return  to  her  native 
country  of  Marie  Leon. 

The  latter's  press-agent  was  undoubtedly  the  active 
incentive  for  the  first  and  shorter  of  those  paragraphs, 
but,  as  he  was  a  knowing  press-agent  and  experienced, 
he  realized  soon  that  his  leisure  hours  had  come:  that 
the  press  was  writing  up  the  two  stars  of  the  production 
because  there  was  a  public  interest  in  them ;  a  demand 
for  endless  particulars  about  them  which  the  agent,  in 
stead  of  having  trouble  in  wedging  into  reluctant 
columns,  had  trouble  in  supplying.  Soon  Carminella 
led  in  the  amount  of  space  devoted  to  the  two  women, 
and  the  fanciful  weaving  done  out  of  the  threads  of  in 
cidents  of  her  life  must  have  convinced  any  one  who 


242  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

knew  the  facts  and  read  the  articles  that  the  quest  for 
romance  writers  in  the  ranks  of  journalism  is  not  so 
hopeless  as  is  constantly  and  mournfully  asserted  by 
those  who  are  not  journalists. 

The  Guardian,  through  Philip  Peyton,  arranged  for 
an  interview  with  Carminellaby  a  woman  reporter;  and 
as  Carminella,  when  she  was  not  at  rehearsal,  or  at  the 
costumer's,  or  the  photographer's,  or  at  the  Tivoli, 
where  she  was  yet  dancing,  was  at  Tom's  studio,  it  was 
decided  to  have  the  reporter  meet  her  there,  while  she 
was  sitting  for  a  drawing  which  Tom  was  making  for  the 
Guardian  article.  This  was  only  a  couple  of  days  before 
the  close  of  La  Cortese's  long  engagement  at  the  Tivoli 
and  the  opening  of  the  Mayfair  season.  Concerning  the 
latter  there  was  a  popular  interest  which  warmed  the 
manager's  heart;  flattered  Marie  Leon's  pride;  made 
Tom  nervously  anxious;  keyed  up  Dominico  to  a  pitch 
of  excitement,  which,  had  it  not  found  some  relief  in 
the  purchase  of  neckcloths  of  startling  brilliancy,  would 
have  quite  prostrated  him;  made  Teresa  dream  that 
her  once  exalted  ambitions  for  herself  were  certain  to 
be  realized  in  her  daughter;  and  left  only  Carminella  of 
all  those  directly  interested,  serene  and  unmoved.  Car 
minella  took  all  her  successes  as  if  they  belonged  to  her 
by  some  right  which  it  was  needless  to  speculate  upon ; 
and  this  apparently  calm  assurance  of  successes  and 
superiority,  in  which  there  was  not  a  particle  of  conceit, 
was  a  mystery  to  the  interviewers  and  all  she  met,  add 
ing  vastly  to  her  interest  and  attractiveness.  No  one, 
not  even  that  densely  stupid  Tom  Lyon,  with  whom  I 
have  no  patience  when  I  think  of  him  in  this  relation, 
guessed  that  the  beautifully  serene  tranquillity  with 
which  Carminella  accepted  the  sunshine  of  success  now 
shed  upon  her  life  was  because  it  seemed  to  her  that 


Nearing  the  Rapids  of  Life.  243 

there  could  be  nothing  but  sunshine  in  life  for  anybody, 
for  Carminella  was  in  love! 

I  have  heard  it  said  that  the  successful  interviewer  for 
the  newspapers  is  not  the  one  who  possesses  most  of  the 
police-court  lawyer's  ingenuity  in  cross-examination, 
but  the  one  with  the  greatest  tact  in  securing  the  confi 
dence  and  interest  of  the  person  to  be  interviewed.  Miss 
Bowman,  of  the  Guardian,  when  she  entered  Tom's 
studio  with  Philip  Peyton,  a  few  minutes  after  Car 
minella,  could  not  conceal  a  start  of  surprise  as  she  saw 
the  girl  she  had  heard  so  much  of,  and  chiefly  as  a 
daughter  of  the  tenements.  Her  impression  of  what 
this  Italian  dancing-girl  was  like  did  not  prepare  her 
for  a  tall,  slender,  lithe  young  woman,  with  thin  scarlet 
lips,  narrow  jet-black  brows  running  in  almost  un- 
curved  lines  over  big,  dark,  straight-looking  eyes  which 
changed  from  grave  to  gay  with  the  flashing  quickness 
of  a  baby's  smile;  with  a  profusion  of  black  hair  which, 
in  the  season's  mode,  was  both  parted,  and  slightly 
puffed,  over  a  low  brow,  and  a  complexion  from  which 
night-work  and  gas-light  had  bleached  only  a  part  of 
the  generous  glow  of  her  youth  and  race.  Carminella 
had  frequently  been  charged  with  having  an  affected 
accent.  Tom  and  her  mother  knew  that  while  it  was 
not  the  accent  of  her  surroundings,  it  was  natural  in 
that  it  was  unconscious:  it  was  a  perfect  acquisition  (it 
could  not  be  called  imitation)  of  Eleanor  Hazelhurst's 
softly  modulated,  broad,  fully  accentuated  tone  and 
method  of  speech. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come  to  interview  me,  for  you 
are  pretty  and  nice,"  Carminella  said  to  Miss  Bowman 
when  they  were  in  Tom's  model  room,  where  La 
Cortese  was  dressing  to  be  drawn  in  costume  for  the 
Guardian. 


244  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

"  I'll  get  even  with  Mr.  Phil  Peyton  for  telling  me 
fairy  stories  about  this  girl  having  been  brought  up  in 
the  slums,"  Miss  Bowman  thought,  and  said  aloud: 
"  Have  you  not  always  been  interviewed  by  nice  and 
pretty  people?" 

"No,"  laughed  Carminella.  "A  woman  came  to  me 
from  the  Sensation  with  a  doctor,  and  wanted  me  to  kick 
high  for  them,  and  wanted  to  measure  the  muscles  of 
my  legs.  Mamma  put  them  out  of  the  rooms  and  threat 
ened  to  whip  them  if  they  returned.  The  Sensation 
printed  two  columns  about  me,  with  drawings  they  said 
were  made  of  my  feet,  ankles,  calves,  and  knees.  It  was 
too  bad  the  reporter  was  a  woman,  for  if  it  had  been  a 
man  Tom  would  have  whipped  him." 

"Tom?" 

"Yes,  Tom  Lyon,"  Carminella  replied,  as  if  there 
were  only  one  Tom  in  the  world. 

"Oh,  we  know  him  only  as  'T.  Fitz  Gerald,'  "  Miss 
Bowman  said.  She  had  discovered  in  the  three  minutes' 
talk  in  the  studio  that  the  dancer  was  in  love  with  the 
artist,  and  she  proceeded  accordingly :  "  I  think  your 
'Tom'  is  amazingly  clever.  He  has  illustrated  some  of 
my  stories  for  the  Guardian,  but  I  never  met  him.  Some 
how  I  did  not  think  he  was  as  handsome  as  I  find  him." 

"He  is  handsome  and  great,"  Carminella  answered, 
as  one  who  passes  final  judgment. 

There  was  no  trouble  after  that  for  the  interviewer. 
She  praised  Tom  and  Tom's  work,  and  when  Carmi 
nella  was  posed  on  the  model  throne,  and  Miss  Bowman 
was  seated  where  Carminella,  in  talking  to  her,  was 
in  correct  pose,  they  gossiped  as  old  and  familiar 
friends. 

"  Mr.  Peyton  tells  me  you  have  been  helping  Miss 
Hazelhurst  in  her  charity-school  work." 


THE     INTERVIEW. 

"As  Carminella  said  this,  she  spoke   intensely  and  leaned  a  little  for 
ward."— Page  245. 


Nearing  the  Rapids  of  Life.  245 

"  Yes,  I  went  there  every  day  for  two  hours,  until  we 
began  rehearsing  at  the  Mayfair." 

"  What  do  you  think  would  be  the  most  beneficial 
charity  in  the  tenement  districts?"  Miss  Bowman  asked 
this  as  if  she  were  not  very  much  interested.  She 
was  anxious  not  to  scare  Carminella  off.  In  casting 
about  in  her  mind  for  a  main  scheme  in  her  interview, 
she  had  suddenly  decided  upon  getting  this  girl,  this 
daughter  of  the  tenements  about  whom  the  whole  town 
was  now  talking,  to  tell  from  her  own  experience  what 
it  would  be  wisest  to  do  to  uplift  the  neglected  masses 
huddled  in  the  congested  districts. 

Carminella  answered  promptly  and  decidedly: 

"  Provide  amusement  and  entertainment  in  the  even 
ing  for  the  children.  In  the  day-time  they  are  at  school 
or  they  are  at  work.  In  the  evening — and  that  is  the  bad 
time — for  those  who  do  not  work  there  is  now  nothing 
to  do,  nothing  that  is  not  bad.  The  boys  and  the  girls 
in  the  tenements  who  grow  up  and  become  wicked  have 
had  nothing  to  amuse  them  or  entertain  them  in  the 
evenings.  It  is  only  the  children  who  can  be  taught, 
or  who  can  be  saved  by  good  people.  If  you  want  to 
save  them  you  must  provide  amusement  to  keep  them 
off  the  street  and  away  from  the  wharves." 

As  Carminella  said  this  she  spoke  intensely  and 
leaned  a  little  forward.  That  was  a  little  out  of  the 
pose  Tom  had  given  her.  He  did  not  correct  her,  how 
ever.  He  was  working  on  her  face  in  rapid  but  care 
fully  accurate  lines,  with  lips  compressed  and  eyes  half 
closed  in  anxious  concentration,  so  eager  was  he  to  fix 
in  his  drawing  the  expression  with  which  Carminella 
spoke.  He  finished  her  figure  in  that  attitude, — he 
could  draw  her  figure  with  his  eyes  closed, — and  so  she 
was  illustrated  in  the  Guardian  the  next  morning,  as  you 


246  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

may  remember,  with  this  sentence  underneath  the  illus 
tration  : 

"It  is  only  the  children  who  can  be  taught,  or  who  can  be  saved 
by  good  people. " 

Miss  Bowman  and  Peyton  returned  to  their  office  when 
they  all  left  the  studio,  and  Tom  said  to  Carminella  as 
they  reached  Fifth  Avenue  on  their  way  across  town : 
"  I  dare  you  to  walk  up  the  avenue  as  far  as  the  reser 
voir  and  back.  Your  mother  will  not  have  come  home 
from  Maggie  Lyon's  yet." 

"You  dare  me!"  Carminella  replied,  in  pretended 
scorn.  "  I  can  outwalk  you  for  anything  you  like." 

Tom  thought,  and  tried  to  say,  that  he  would  like  to 
make  the  wager  a  kiss,  but  the  tongue  of  this  usually 
very  confident  young  man  seemed  suddenly  afflicted 
with  an  access  of  timidity.  It  was  late  October,  and  the 
first  refresh  ing  eagerness  in  the  air  had  filled  the  avenue 
with  strollers,  and  prompted  the  young  couple  to  stride 
up  the  glorious  promenade  with  a  swinging  gait  that 
caused  hundreds  as  they  passed  to  turn  and  look  at  them 
with  smiling  admiration :  they  were  so  young  and  hand 
some  and  happy,  and  so  manifestly  lovers.  Some  they 
met  recognized  the  girl,  and  whispered  "La  Cortese," 
to  companions,  and  some  of  Tom's  new  acquaintances 
met  them,  raised  their  hats,  and  seemed  to  walk  faster 
and  look  brighter  for  the  meeting.  Then  Tom  would 
tell  Carminella  about  the  friends  they  met,  and  stop 
with  a  story  half  told.  Sometimes  he  remained  silent 
so  long  Carminella  would  glance  at  him  shyly,  and  if  he 
caught  her  glance  they  would  both  blush  and  he  would 
swallow  hard ;  swallow  something  he  was  trying  to  say, 
it  seemed,  but  all  that  he  could  say  was  about  other 
men,  nothing  about  himself,  or  her — foolish  Tom! 


Nearing  the  Rapids  of  Life.  247 

Down  the  avenue  again,  their  long  lithe  legs  reaching 
out  in  such  a  rattling  pace  that  some  who  instinctively 
tried  to  follow  pulled  up  panting  in  a  block  or  two. 

"  Are  you  nervous  about  dancing  at  the  Hazelhursts' 
to-morrow  night?"  Tom  asked. 

"  Not  at  all,"  she  answered.  "  I  do  not  think  I  could 
be  nervous  about  dancing  now,  no  matter  where;  and 
you  will  be  there." 

Oh,  Tom  !  Tom !  Tom !  there  was  an  opening.  But 
the  big,  stuttering  good-for-nothing  only  said:  "And 
the  next  night  is  the  opening  at  the  Mayfair. " 

"  Yes:  is  it  not  a  funny  idea  to  open  Saturday  night?" 

"Yes,  it's  funny,"  parrotted  Tom,  whose  wit  was 
once  so  quick ! 

At  her  door  she  shook  hands  with  him,  and  gave  him 
such  a  look  that  he  left  her  in  a  trance,  from  which  he 
woke  a  block  from  the  house,  only  then  realizing  what 
the  look  meant ;  and  then  he  turned  and  hurried  back, 
with  his  heart  thumping  in  its  sudden  resolve  to  make 
itself  known  to  Carminella. 

As  Tom  approached  the  door  again  he  saw  Dominico 
leave  the  house  and  swagger  down  the  street  in  the  op 
posite  direction.  "All  right,"  thought  Tom,  "if  she  is 
alone  so  much  the  better:  I  can  tell  her  at  once,"  and 
he  hurried  up  the  stairs.  The  head  of  the  stairs  was 
opposite  the  door  leading  into  the  family  sitting-  and 
dining-room  which  was  directly  back  of  Carminella's 
room.  Dominico  in  going  out,  with  his  tenement-house 
habits  had  left  the  hall  door  open,  and  at  the  threshold 
Tom  heard  a  voice  which  startled  him  so  that  his  heart 
almost  stopped  beating.  Another  step  forward  brought 
Carminella's  room  in  view  through  the  open  door 
between  the  rooms.  He  saw  Carminella  standing  still 
with  her  back  toward  him,  and  bending  over  her  hand 


248  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

was  Mark  Waters.  Tom  heard  only  two  or  three  words 
that  Waters  spoke,  but  those  few  made  him  stagger 
back  and  catch  the  stair-rail  for  support. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  Tom  never  heard  Carmi- 
nella  or  Teresa  or  Dominico  speak  of  Mark  Waters' 
visits.  It  was  not  altogether  Waters'  request  that  had 
prompted  Carminella's  silence:  she  had  never  thought 
of  him  otherwise  than  as  a  man  who  had  some  business 
with  the  Mayfair  theatre — Waters  had  implied  as  much 
— and  as  one  with  whom  her  father  was  transacting  the 
business  concerning  her  new  engagement.  She  had 
never  had  anything  to  do  with  the  business  affairs  of 
her  engagements,  and  it  is  probable  she  would  not  have 
mentioned  Waters  to  Tom  even  had  it  not  been  Waters' 
request.  Waters  did  not  interest  her  in  any  respect, 
and  of  course,  she  did  not  know  of  any  reason  why  Tom 
should  be  concerned  about  her  acquaintance  with  him. 

When  Tom  parted  from  Carminella  at  the  front  door 
she  ran  upstairs  and  found  Dominico  and  Waters  in  the 
sitting-room.  At  a  sign  from  Waters  the  Italian  made 
a  hasty  excuse  and  left  the  house.  Carminella  said, 
"  My  mother  will  be  at  home  very  soon,  Mr.  Waters,  if 
you  care  to  wait  for  her,"  and  went  into  her  own  room, 
closing  the  door;  but  in  an  instant  Waters  followed  her. 
She  looked  at  him,  startled  at  his  action,  and  for  a  few 
moments  was  made  motionless  and  speechless  by  his 
sudden,  incoherent,  frenzied  declaration  of  love.  Then 
the  girl  turned,  went  quickly  into  the  other  room  and 
said: 

"Mr.  Waters,  you  must  not  speak  to  me  like  that;  you 
must  not  speak  to  me  at  all.  No,  don't  follow  me;  I 
am  going  out — I  am  going  to  meet  my  mother."  And 
she  left  him. 

Tom  walked  many  weary  blocks,  his  heart  aching  with 


Hearing  the  Rapids  of  Life.  249 

rage  and  jealousy.  "  Waters,  who  accused  me  of  being 
a  thief,  admitted  to  those  rooms,— to  Carminella's  own 
room— and  while  she  was  alone!  Alone  too  by  Domi- 
nico's  design  evidently,  perhaps  by  Teresa's  too !"  How 
could  he  know?  His  tortured  brain  could  find  no  ex 
planation  of  the  astounding  revelation  that  did  not 
further  wrench  and  tear  his  aching  heart.  He  could 
not  reason,  could  scarcely  think  at  all,  he  could  only 
make  one  resolve — he  would  not  see  Carminella  the  next 
night  at  the  Hazelhursts',  he  would  never  see  her  again. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

OH,  WHAT   FOOLS  MEN  ARE! 

BUT  Tom  did  see  Carminella  again,  and  the  next 
night  at  the  Hazelhursts'. 

Minnie  Hazelhurst  had  made  up  her  mind  that  Dr. 
and  Mrs.  Hazelhurst  should  issue  cards  for  a  musicale. 
It  was  usually  Minnie  who  decided  upon  the  date  and 
character  of  the  Hazelhursts'  social  functions,  and  her 
father  and  mother  were  usually  content  to  issue  cards  in 
accordance  with  her  decisions.  In  this  instance  there  had 
been  some  slight  family  friction,  however.  It  was  at  an 
after-dinner  family  conclave  when  the  form  and  style  of 
cards  to  be  adopted  for  the  season,  and  the  special  in 
vitation  list  for  the  occasion,  were  being  discussed,  that 
Minnie  announced : 

"  I  think  mamma,  we'll  have  that  La  Cortese,  Eleanor's 
slum  pet,  here  to  dance  for  us. " 

"Slum  pet?"  echoed  Mrs.  Hazelhurst,  as  nearly 
wholly  amazed  as  she  ever  was  in  her  life. 

"Slum — what,  daughter?"  mildly  asked  the  doctor, 
looking  up  from  a  volume  of  Egyptology. 

"  That  is  Minnie's  fanciful  paraphrase,"  Eleanor  said, 
smiling.  "  She  means  my  pretty  assistant,  Carminella 
Cortese,  who  is  a  professional  dancer  now." 

Mrs.  Hazelhurst  continuing  to  look  horrified  and  per 
plexed,  Minnie  resumed : 

"  Mamma,  dear,  Eleanor  has  been  talking  about  this 
girl  three  meals  a  day  every  day  for  more  than  two 

250 


Oh,  What  Fools  Men  Are!  251 

years;  I  have  almost  decided  to  ask  you  not  to  invite 
Philip  Peyton  here,  as  he  never  talks  about  any  one 
else;  the  papers  have  been  writing  about  nothing  else 
for  two  weeks,  and  even  George  Peyton  writes  to  me 
madly,  wildly,  from  three  thousand  miles  away  for  a 
photograph  and  full  particulars  about  La  Cortese,  for 
whom  he  seems  to  have  found  an  antecedent  father  with 
a  fortune  and  consumption." 

"Minnie,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Hazelhurst,  "I  wish  you 
would  stop  talking  nonsense  long  enough  to  tell  me  if 
the  person  you  referred  to  as  Eleanor's  slum  pet,  and 
her  pupil  Carminella,  and  this  dancing-woman  (Mrs. 
Hazelhurst's  voice  became  slightly  frigid),  La  Cortese, 
are  one  and  the  same?" 

Minnie  walked  over  behind  her  mother's  chair  and 
stroked  her  hair  before  she  replied: 

"  I  thought  that,  perhaps,  with  Eleanor  and  Philip  and 
George  and  the  newspapers  all  expressing  amazement 
at  this  singular  coincidence,  not  only  you  but  even  papa 
might  have  taken  notice  of  the  fact." 

Dr.  Hazelhurst  once  more  looked  up  from  his  volume 
and  asked: 

"  Do  I  understand  that  Baby's  pet  pupil  has  become 
a  dancing-woman?" 

"Yes,"  said  Minnie  gravely,  "Eleanor  strives  to  lead 
them  to  the  light,  and  they  land  at  the  footlights." 

The  doctor  wheeled  his  chair  around  until  he  faced 
Minnie,  and  then  he  said  slowly: 

"Why,  how  can  that  be?  I  understand  that  this  girl 
still  aids  Baby,  and  surely  Baby  cannot  know  a  dancing- 
woman. "  The  emphasis  the  doctor  put  on  that  "  know" 
spoke  volumes  on  the  subject  of  class  distinction,  of 
which  the  doctor  would  be  the  first  to  assert  that  there 
is  none  in  this  free  country. 

21 


252  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

"Eleanor  not  only  knows  a  dancing-woman,"  said 
Minnie,  who  always  delighted  in  precipitating  a  con 
flict  between  the  theory  and  practice  of  the  doctor's 
democracy,  "  but  she  agrees  with  me  that  it  would  be 
quite  the  thing  to  invite  La  Cortese  here  to  dance  for 
our  guests." 

This  was  a  fact;  for  while  Minnie  was  a  stout  fighter 
for  the  Hazelhurst  social  helm,  she  was  a  tactician  as 
well,  and  she  never  went  into  a  hard  battle  without 
assurance  that  she  could  depend  upon  Eleanor's  rein 
forcement.  Eleanor's  battery  drew  up  at  this  critical 
moment. 

"I  think,  mamma,"  she  said,  "that  this  plan  can  be 
carried  out  all  right  so  far  as  we  are  concerned,  and  it 
will  do  Carminella  a  great  deal  of  good.  If  we  have 
her  here,  that  means  of  course  that  fifty  other  peo 
ple  we  know  will  engage  her  for  private  entertainments 
during  the  winter.  The  girl  has  a  very  sweet  natural 
voice  which,  it  seems  to  me,  could  be  cultivated  up  to 
something  useful  professionally.  She  could  take  lessons 
with  what  she  might  earn  at  these  private  entertain 
ments.  And  papa,  in  spite  of  her  being  a  dancing- 
woman,  she  is  as  sweet,  pure-souled,  beautiful  a  womai? 
as  I  ever  knew." 

This  and  the  smile  with  which  she  spoke  to  her  father 
silenced  criticism  long  enough  for  Minnie  to  take  the 
floor. 

"That's  the  very  point,  what  Eleanor  has  just  said. 
Of  course,  I  should  never  ask  you  to  engage  any  of  the 
notorious  dancers  and  singers  so  many  people  had  to 
entertain  them  last  winter,  but  this  being  Baby's  pet 
pupil,  and  as  we  have  made  all  the  arrangements  for 
her  coming  here  after  the  theatre  that  night,  I  suppose 
it  will  be  all  right." 


Oh,  What  Fools  Men  Are!  253 

The  doctor  returned  to  his  volume.  Mrs.  Hazelhurst 
sighed  resignedly  and  remarked: 

"  Well,  Minnie,  if  La  Cortese  announces  herself  to  our 
guests  by  kicking  the  chandelier  I  suppose  you  will  ex 
cuse  me  if  I  retire  then  to  my  room  and  leave  you  mis 
tress  of  the  revels." 

Eleanor  laughed  quietly  at  this,  but  Minnie  responded 
dutifully : 

"Yes,  mamma,  but  we  will  put  it  in  La  Cortese's  con 
tract  that  she  is  not  to  kick  the  chandelier,  for  as  we  are 
using  electric  lights  she  might  be  shocked  as  well  as 
you." 

So  that  is  how  Carminella  came  to  be  asked  to  dance 
at  the  Hazelhursts'.  Tom  was  invited  at  Philip  Peyton's 
suggestion.  There  was  no  trouble  about  that.  Peyton 
had  taken  Mrs.  Hazelhurst  and  Minnie  and  Eleanor  to 
Tom's  studio.  There  Mrs.  Hazelhurst  had  had  a  cup 
of  tea  and  bought  a  drawing;  and  as  Philip  had  made 
some  skilfully  vague  allusions  to  Tom's  father's  country 
place,  she  returned  home  with  a  settled  and  comfortable 
idea  that  Tom  was  a  country  gentleman's  son,  who  had 
gone  into  art  for  art's  sake.  Philip  had  sworn  the  girls 
not  to  correct  their  mother's  impression  about  Tom's 
antecedents:  he  said  he  wanted  the  fun  of  doing  that 
himself  later. 

Tom  had  thought  that  he  would  not  go  to  the  Hazel- 
hursts,  and  there  see  Carminella  again.  He  thought  so 
all  night  long  after  leaving  Carminella  with  Mark 
Waters;  thought  so  as  he  walked  the  streets  and  paced 
the  floor  of  his  studio;  thought  so  the  next  morning, 
after  the  sleepless  night,  when  he  tried  to  work  and  could 
not  because  he  could  only  see  Carminella  on  the  model 
throne.  But  after  a  while  he  asked  himself  why  he 
should  not  see  her  again,  and  was  astonished  at  the  load 


254  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

that  seemed  taken  from  his  heart  at  the  mere  thought  of 
it.  Why  not?  It  would  do  no  harm  to  see  her;  he  need 
not  speak  to  her.  Then  he  began  to  think  of  the  loving 
look  that  had  taken  him  back,  and  pretty  soon  sanity 
almost  returned  to  him;  for  he  questioned  himself  why 
it  was  not  possible  that  that  loving  look  was  honest? 
He  had  heard  nothing  of  what  she  had  said  to  Waters, 
only  a  little  of  what  he  had  said  to  her. 

He  was  carefully  dressed  two  hours  before  the  time 
mentioned  on  his  card  of  invitation,  and  went  to  the 
Hazelhursts'  house  on  the  very  minute,  although  he 
knew  it  was  hours  before  Carminella  would  arrive ;  yet 
was  surprised  to  find  that  he  was  the  first  guest  there. 
Minnie  Hazelhurst  said  to  him :  "  Let  me  show  you  a 
room,  which  has  come  to  be  our  picture  gallery,  library, 
and  music-room  combined.  There  may  be  some  things 
there  you  will  like  to  see,  and,  of  course,  no  one  can  see 
anything  after  the  people  come. " 

Tom  went  with  her  through  a  colonnaded  hall  to  a 
room  beyond,  flooded  with  softly  shaded  electric  light, 
and  which,  in  spite  of  its  enormous  size,  through  the 
artful  arrangement  of  furniture,  adornments,  and  works 
of  art,  gave  the  impression  of  being  a  constantly  used 
living-room.  There  were  very  many  books  in  low  cases 
whose  polished  oak  tops  served  as  shelves  for  bits  of 
rare  handicraft,  and  here  and  there  on  them  leaned  a 
drawing,  or  an  oil  painting  unframed  and  only  on  its 
stretcher.  In  one  snug  corner  was  an  enormous  read 
ing  table  where  one  could  fancy  Doctor  Hazelhurst  had 
ample  space  to  spread  forth  a  dozen  open  volumes  for 
consultation,  and  still  have  elbow-room  to  write  his  own 
notes.  In  another  corner  was  a  grand  piano,  and  for 
once  a  grand  piano  seemed  modest  and  retiring,  in  that 
vast  room.  Next  to  the  piano  was  a  handsome  little 


Oh,  What  Fools  Men  Are!  255 

stage  which  Tom  rightly  guessed  was  for  Carminella. 
In  the  same  end  of  the  room  opposite  the  grand  piano 
was  something  Tom  looked  at  with  so  much  curiosity 
Minnie  explained  to  him  it  was  an  Indian  settee.  It 
seemed  to  be  a  carved  teak  seat,  backless  and  armless, 
and  was  swung  from  the  ceiling  by  ornamental  brass 
chains. 

"  But  how  do  you  get  into  it?"  said  Tom,  noticing  its 
height  from  the  floor. 

"  Oh,  it's  been  elevated  for  this  occasion  only,"  Minnie 
replied.  "  When  one  sits  in  it  and  swings,  the  chains 
creak  weirdly,  and  if  that  should  happen  during  our 
violinist's  solo  its  notes  might  not  be  in  harmony  with 
his,  and  he  would  account  us  a  little  better  than  the 
wicked  Philistines."  She  showed  him  etchings  and 
drawings  and  pastels  and  oils,  until  the  other  guests 
began  arriving.  Minnie  and  Eleanor,  and  Philip  when 
he  came,  introduced  Tom  to  people,  one  after  another 
as  they  arrived,  and  before  the  guests  began  drifting 
toward  the  music-room,  he  found  that  he  had  met  nearly 
every  one.  But  the  people  who  tried  to  talk  to  him  found 
Tom  unresponsive.  He  was  thinking  every  moment  of 
Carminella,  and  though  he  tried  to  understand  and  be 
interested  in  what  was  said  to  him,  his  heart  was  too 
heavy,  and  I  fear  that  a  score  of  people  who  had  heard 
of  the  rising  fame  of  T.  Fitz  Gerald  Lyon  decided  that 
he  might  be  clever  as  an  artist,  but  he  was  certainly 
somewhat  dense,  socially. 

The  last  of  the  soloists  had  been  heard  and  had  de 
parted,  and  the  guests,  who  were  increasing  in  number 
by  late  arrivals,  had  returned  to  the  dining  and  adjoining 
rooms  where  supper  was  served.  There  was  an  uncon 
cealed,  slightly  excited  anticipation  over  the  arrival  of 
La  Cortese.  In  Tom's  case  the  excitement  was  not 


256  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

slight.  He  found  himself  looking  anxiously  toward 
the  hall  at  every  little  commotion  of  new  arrival.  One 
such  time  he  squarely  caught  the  gaze  of  a  woman  not 
young,  small,  piquante,  and  yet  commanding.  As  she 
entered  from  the  hall  Minnie  Hazelhurst  advanced 
toward  her  saying: 

"You  are  late,  Mrs.  Jack." 

She  answered  in  a  voice  perfectly  well-bred  but  rather 
hard,  it  seemed  affectedly  hard,  and  as  if  she  cared  that 
more  people  than  the  one  addressed  should  hear  her: 

"Why,  Minnie;  I  wrote  you  Jack  and  I  had  to  go  to  a 
dinner.  To  get  here  even  now  we  had  to  leave  before 
poor  Jack  had  a  glass  of  cognac.  No,  don't  trouble  your 
self  to  send  for  any.  Jack  knows  where  it  is."  Then 
she  added  in  only  a  slightly  lowered  tone,  "  Who  is  that 
long,  red-headed,  melancholy  stranger  over  there?  He's 
a  stunning-looking  chap,  wherever  he  came  from.  Is 
he  a  cowboy  with  a  letter  from  George  Peyton?" 

"Mrs.  Jack,"  Minnie  responded  with  pretended  awe, 
"he  is  my  lion,  and  that's  his  name,  T.  Fitz  Gerald 
Lyon." 

"  Never  heard  of  him,"  responded  the  other,  calmly 
surveying  Tom  through  her  lorgnette.  "What  is  he? 
A  fiddler,  or  a  prize-fighter,  or  an  artist,  or — 

"  Excuse  me  a  minute,  Mrs.  Jack,"  said  Minnie,  break 
ing  away  suddenly.  She  waited  until  Mrs.  Jack  had 
turned  to  speak  to  some  one,  and  then  went  swiftly  over 
to  Tom  and  whispered:  "Now  you'll  be  entertained. 
Mrs.  Jack  Daring — you've  heard  of  her,  of  course — will 
attack  you  because  I've  told  her  you're  a  lion.  She 
doesn't  know  whether  you  shoot  elephants  or  sail  yachts. 
She  likes  only  those  people  who  do  either,  or  anything 
else  which  makes  them  noted."  Minnie  passed  on, 
and  a  moment  later  Mrs.  Jack  approached  Tom  with 


MRS.     JACK     DARING. 
You  are  thinking  that  I  am  making  a  picture."— Page  257. 


Oh,  What  Fools  Men  Are!  257 

extended  hand,  and  speaking  as  if  to  a  lifelong  friend 
said: 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Lyon ;  I  am  Mrs.  Daring.  If 
you've  ever  heard  of  me  it's  probably  as  Mrs.  Jack  Dar 
ing.  What  do  you  do  that  other  people  don't?" 

"  I — I — why  a  great  many  people  do  what  I  do,"  Tom 
answered,  utterly  perplexed  by  this  encounter. 

"Oh,  no,  they  don't,"  said  Mrs.  Jack  coolly;  "I  know 
the  Hazelhurst  set,  so  I  know  you 're  a  stranger:  I  know 
also  the  Hazelhursts  don't  increase  their  invitation  list 
except  for  celebrities." 

"  They  have  in  this  case,  sure,"  Tom  said,  wondering 
what  could  have  induced  this  calm,  handsome,  brilliant 
ly  dressed  woman  to  make  game  of  him.  He  saw  that 
they  were  being  observed  by  a  number  of  people,  and 
then  his  artist  eye  remarked  that  Mrs.  Jack  had  posed 
herself  very  effectively,  using  the  heavy  dark  folds  of  a 
looped  portiere  as  a  background  for  her  dazzling  gown, 
and  no  less  dazzling  bare  shoulders  and  throat.  "And 
she  had  used  me  as  an  accessory  in  the  composition," 
thought  Tom ;  and  with  the  thought  he  looked  at  her 
and  smiled.  She  was  smiling,  too,  and  she  made  Tom 
blush  furiously  by  saying: 

"  You  are  thinking  that  I'm  making  a  picture.  Well, 
I  am.  I  am  small,  dark,  rather  good-looking;  you  are 
tall,  blond,  and  very  good-looking,  and  I  think  we  must 
be  a  rather  striking  tableau  vivant." 

Tom  was  speechless,  but  she  went  on,  "  You  have  not 
told  me  what  you  do!" 

Tom  consciously,  or  unconsciously,  imitated  her  man 
ner  and  frankness  of  speech.  "  Oh,  I  draw  a  great  deal 
and  rather  well;  and  paint  a  little — rotten — bad." 

"I  like  that  'rotten'  as  artists  use  it.  What's  the 
commotion?" 


258  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

"  I  think  La  Cortese  has  arrived,"  Tom  answered; 
and  just  then  Carminella  came  downstairs  with  Eleanor 
and  walked  through  the  rooms.  She  looked  so  superbly 
lovely  it  was  not  surprising  that  there  were  half-sup 
pressed  exclamations  of  admiration  on  all  sides.  She 
was  dressed  in  an  unadorned,  supple,  white  silk  gown 
and  carried  a  garland  of  red  roses.  When  she  saw  Tom 
she  bowed  and  smiled,  and  it  was  evident  that  she  in 
tended  to  go  to  him,  but  Mrs.  Jack  at  that  moment  put 
her  hand  on  his  arm  and  said:  "  We  won't  find  a  seat  if 
we  do  not  go  to  the  music-room  now." 

Carminella's  eyes  and  lips  clouded  like  a  child's 
as  she  saw  Tom  move  away  after  only  bowing  con 
strainedly. 

Most  of  the  guests  had  preceded  them,  and  already 
every  available  seat  in  the  big  room  was  filled,  and  many 
men  were  standing.  Mrs.  Jack  gave  a  quick  glance 
around  the  room,  espied  the  swinging  settee  and  directed 
Tom  by  her  hand  on  his  arm,  to  that  corner  of  the  room. 
"Why,  this  seat  has  been  raised,"  she  said,  putting  her 
hands  on  it.  "  I  could  vault  into  it,  if  it  were  not  for 
my  train.  But  you  can  lift  me  in." 

"  L-lift  you  in!"  stammered  Tom,  feeling  the  per 
spiration  starting  out  on  his  forehead. 

"Certainly,  just  jump  me  in,  so."  She  put  her  own 
hands  on  her  waist. 

Tom  was  utterly  miserable.  He  felt  that  every  one  in 
the  room  was  watching  them,  but  concluding  that  he 
was  a  victim  of  inexorable  fate,  if  not  of  a  nightmare, 
he  put  his  hands  on  her  waist,  closed  his  eyes,  muttered 
a  wish  that  he  might  die  or  wake  up,  and  lifted.  He 
threw  the  light  weight  about  two  feet  higher  than  the 
settee,  and  she  came  down  not  gently,  and  with  a  gasp. 
But  she  settled  herself  good-naturedly  and  remarked, 


Oh,  What  Fools  Men  Are!  259 

"  You  are  accustomed  to  lifting  heavier  women  than  I — 
or  do  you  play  football?"  The  settee  began  to  swing 
and  she  put  one  hand  on  Tom's  shoulder  to  steady  her 
self.  At  that  moment  the  orchestra  began  playing,  and 
Carminella  glided  on  the  stage,  wearing  a  wreath  of 
roses,  and  carrying  a  garland  in  her  hands.  She  stood 
perfectly  still  in  the  centre  of  the  stage  during  several 
bars  of  music,  the  garland  crossed  in  front  of  her,  an 
end  in  either  hand  by  her  side.  She  glanced  slowly 
about  the  room,  saw  Mrs.  Jack  place  her  hand  on  Tom's 
shoulder,  and  Eleanor  Hazelhurst  and  Philip  Peyton, 
who  knew  her  face  so  well,  wondered  why  her  eyes 
closed  and  her  lips  trembled  for  an  instant. 

It  was  a  Greek  dance  she  had  studied  long  and  hard 
with  Professor  Polli,  and  had  tried,  but  without  success, 
before  a  Tivoli  audience.  Carminella  liked  it  best  of 
all  her  dances,  and  so  did  Tom,  and  it  was  his  suggestion 
that  she  try  it  before  the  Hazelhurst  guests.  It  was  an 
expression  of  youthful,  exuberant,  out-of-door  joyous- 
ness,  studied  and  artful  as  it  was;  and  the  action  was 
little  more  than  light,  graceful,  running  steps,  with 
rhythmic  weaving  of  garland-laden  hands.  For  a  time 
Carminella's  face  did  not  correspond  in  expression  with 
her  dancing,  but  then  she  felt,  she  could  not  help  but 
feel,  the  intense  impression  her  buoyant  grace  and  warm 
beauty  were  making  upon  the  spectators,  and  her  face 
lighted  with  a  smile.  She,  at  least,  had  learned  to  smile 
and  be  miserable,  though  Tom  had  not. 

"  She  is  the  most  exquisite  creature  I  ever  saw  in  my 
life!"  whispered  Mrs.  Jack. 

Tom  was  silent. 

"  When  did  she  come  over?" 

"Over  from  where?"  Tom  responded,  shortly. 

''Wherever  she's  imported  from?" 


260  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

"She  is  not  imported:  she's  native." 

"And  is  this  her  d£but?" 

"  No,  she's  danced  two  years  at  the  Tivoli." 

"Where's  that?" 

"On  the  Bowery." 

"  Do  they  do  such  things  on  the  Bowery?" 

Tom  did  not  answer;  and  Mrs.  Jack  regarded  the 
back  of  his  head  with  a  puzzled  look.  Then  she  tried 
again : 

"  Do  you  know  her?" 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Jack  was  silent  a  long  time — for  her.  She  looked 
at  the  dancer  and  caught  a  sidelong  glance  from  her. 
Then  she  leaned  forward  and  examined  the  side  of  Tom's 
face.  She  said  to  herself,  "Oh,  I  see!"  and  whispered 
to  Tom,  "  And  you  love  her?" 

"Yes." 

"And  she  loves  you." 

"She  does  not." 

Tom  started,  as  if  just  conscious  that  he  was  meekly 
confessing  to  this  woman  he  had  known  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  what  he  had  never  confessed  to  any  one  else. 

"  I  said,"  Mrs.  Jack  whispered  again,  "she  loves  you. 
I  did  not  ask  you.  I  know  it." 

Tom  turned  a  blazing  face  toward  her.  "  How  do 
you  know?" 

"  I  know  from  a  look  she's  just  favored  me  with.  If 
she  carries  a  stiletto  I  don't  want  to  meet  her.  There, 
she's  finished.  My!  what  applause  from  a  kid-gloved 
audience.  See  them  crowd  around  her,  Phil  Peyton 
and  Eleanor  doing  the  presentations.  No;  she  shakes 
her  head.  She  won't  dance  again.  Now,  my  dear  young 
giant,  just  lift  me  down.  Careful !  What  muscles  you 
have !  Now,  run  right  over  to  that  girl,  take  her  hands, 


Oh,  What  Fools  Men  Are!  261 

and  say  'I  love  you.'  I  fancy  you  can  say  that  in  a 
rather  fetching  way.  Run,  faint  heart!  There!  you're 
losing  her.  Can't  you  see  her  making  eyes,  and  playing 
Peyton  against  you?  She's  going,  she's  gone!  Oh, 
what  fools  men  are!" 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

A   FLICKERING   LIGHT  GOES  OUT. 

"WHAT  fools  men  are!"  Nothing  Mrs.  Jack  Daring 
ever  said  was  repeated  more  times  by  its  hearer  than  was 
the  single  and  obvious  truth  she  thus  expressed  to  Tom. 
When  a  man  is  not  quite  insane  from  jealousy,  the  per 
fect  faith  of  a  life-time  may  weigh  against  ail  unex 
plained  incident  of  a  moment;  and  by  constantly  repeat 
ing  Mrs.  Jack's  axiom  Tom  at  last  came  to  apply  it  to 
himself;  to  admit  that  Carminella  who,  through  all  her 
life  he  had  believed — had  known — to  personify  honesty 
and  purity,  might  have  some  explanation  which  he  should 
hear  of  the  presence  of  Mark  Waters  in  her  room.  He 
began  to  admit  that  he  had  been  a  fool  not  to  seek  that 
explanation.  And  it  is  always  a  healthful  contributory 
step  toward  truth  and  justice  when  a  man  admits  he 
is  a  fool. 

Tom  went  over  to  Mulberry  Court  early  the  next  day 
after  the  evening  at  the  Hazelhurst's.  A  walk  with  Dan 
to  the  top  of  the  hills  back  of  the  Court,  from  where 
Long  Island  Sound  could  be  seen ;  a  talk  with  his  father, 
who  came  remarkably  near  divining  the  true  circum 
stances  under  which  Waters  had  been  alone  with  Car 
minella;  and  an  hour  in  the  face  of  the  fresh  breeze 
from  the  Sound,  sent  Tom  back  to  the  city  with  a 
cooler,  calmer  mind,  and  a  healthful  determination  to 
see  Carminella  after  the  opening  performance  that 
night  at  the  Mayfair;  to  go  home  to  supper  with  her. 

262 


A  Flickering  Light  Goes  Out.  263 

and  Teresa,  and  have  everything  explained.  Dan 
promised  to  come  over  to  the  performance,  and  to  make 
one  of  the  supper  party,  and  to  take  all  perplexing 
matters  under  consideration.  When  Tom  reached  his 
studio  he  found  this  note  from  Carminella: 

DEAR  TOM  :  Please  be  at  the  show.  I  don't  think  I  can  go  on 
if  you  are  not  there.  And  please  meet  us  at  the  stage-door  after 
ward.  I  hoped  to  see  you  at  the  dress  rehearsal  this  morning, 
because  I  wanted  to  ask  you  why  you  were  so  unkind  to  me  last 
night.  Have  I  done  anything  to  offend  you?  CARMINE. 

Tom  hugged  the  note,  shouted,  sang  and  danced  as 
he  dressed,  and  scolded  himself  in  the  mirror:  "What 
fools  men  are!  But  she  has  faith.  She  is  an  angel  and 
has  the  best  nose  and  ears  I  ever  saw  in  a  life  model  or 
cast.  I  am  a  fool !  She  has  thin  lips  like  the  Unknown, " 
and  he  stopped  to  throw  a  kiss  to  the  cast  of  that  beau 
tiful  head,  and  even  her  calm,  gentle  lips  seemed  to  be 
saying,  "What  fools  men  are!" 

He  was  about  to  leave  his  studio  when  the  janitor 
came  to  his  door  to  say  that  a  woman  had  asked  for  him, 
but  as  she  would  not  give  her  name  he  would  not  let 
her  into  the  building.  She  was  waiting  outside  until 
the  janitor  could  ask  Mr.  Lyon  if  he  would  see  Bill 
Williams.  "That  can't  be  her  name,"  added  the  jani 
tor,  "for  no  man  could  make  himself  up  to  look  as 
tough  as  she." 

"  Bill  Williams !"  exclaimed  Tom.  "  Tell  the  woman 
to  come  up  here." 

"You'd  better  look  out  for  your  watch,  then,"  the 
janitor  said,  suspiciously. 

It  was  Molly  who  entered  the  studio  when  Tom  opened 
the  door  in  response  to  a  faint  knock;  Mol1y,  looking  so 
weak  and  weary,  Tom  made  her  sit  down,  against  her 


264  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

will,  and  rest  a  few  minutes  before  he  would  let  her 
speak.  Then  she  said :  "  Bill  sent  you  these,  and  said  if 
you  didn't  mind  coming  he'd  like  to  see  you." 

She  handed  him  the  letters  Chung  had  stolen  from 
Mark  Waters,  and  which  Tom  had  been  accused  of  steal 
ing.  Again  and  again  Tom  started  and  exclaimed  aloud 
as  he  read  the  letters :  "  Carminella's  father  alive !  Send 
ing  Teresa  money!  Through  Mark  Waters!" 

The  first  thing  that  Tom  made  out  of  the  amazing 
revelation  was  that  he  had  stumbled  upon  a  motive  for 
Waters'  attitude  toward  Carminella,  although  he  could 
only  grasp  a  confused  and  tangled  idea  of  the  whole  situ 
ation. 

"And  did  Bill  send  for  me?"  he  asked  of  Molly  at 
last. 

"No,"  she  repeated  carefully:  "he  said  if  you  didn't 
mind  coming  he'd  like  to  see  you." 

"About  what?  Will  to-morrow  morning  do?"  Tom 
asked,  remembering  Carminella's  note,  and  that  it  was 
approaching  theatre  hour. 

"  Bill  thinks  not,"  Molly  answered.  Then  she  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobbed.  "  He  thinks  he'll 
die  to-night.  Oh,  my  God!  don't  let  him  die!" 

" Come  quick  then!"  exclaimed  Tom,  "and  explain 
how  he  got  these  letters  as  we  go." 

Molly's  explanation  included  much  with  which  the 
reader  is  already  acquainted.  What  was  new  had  oc 
curred  within  a  few  hours.  In  the  afternoon  Molly 
went  to  the  Tivoli  and  there  learned  Tom's  studio  ad 
dress,  for  Bill  had  said  that  the  letters  must  be  delivered 
to  Tom  that  day.  "I  ain't  going  t'  last  much  longer, 
Molly,"  he  said,  between  short  difficult  breaths,  as  he 
lay  on  the  floor  bed  in  their  room  over  the  opium  den. 
"  Don't  cry,  girl.  Watch  me.  I'll  die  game.  I  always 


MOLLY. 
"Who  entered  the  studio" in  response  to  a  faint  knock." — Page  263. 

22 


A  Flickering  Light  Goes  Out.  265 

took  me  punishment  smilin'.  P'raps  I  can  go  t'  Tom's 
room  if  it's  near  a  surface-car,  wid  you  t'  help  me, 
Molly."  At  four  o'clock  Bill  said  he  felt  stronger. 
Molly  helped  him  to  dress,  and  they  started  to  walk 
across  to  Broadway,  as  the  cable  cars  would  take  them 
near  Tom's  address.  At  Centre  street  they  stopped  to 
rest,  and  Bill,  panting  with  the  exertion  of  his  short 
walk,  was  standing  on  the  curb  leaning  heavily  on  Molly, 
when  a  carriage  containing  Mark  Waters  came  slowly 
along.  Waters  always  drove  home  now.  In  the  elevated 
or  surface  cars  at  the  hour  business  men  were  going  up 
town,  acquaintances,  of  late,  always  failed  to  see  him 
over  the  tops  of  their  evening  papers ;  and  men  he  knew 
only  by  sight  glanced  at  him  curiously,  and  whispered 
to  their  companions.  There  were  queer  stories  around 
the  street  concerning  Waters'  affairs,  and  he  faced  his 
fellow  business  men  as  little  as  possible. 

He  saw  Molly  and  her  companion  on  the  sidewalk, 
and  at  his  order  the  carriage  stopped  close  to  them.  He 
put  his  head  out  of  the  open  window  and,  addressing 
Molly,  said: 

"  See  here,  my  good  girl,  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rough 
with  you  when  you  called  at  my  office.  Those  letters 
you  say  you  have  are  no  value  to  any  one  else,  and  very 
little  to  me.  But  if  you  have  them,  the  original  letters 
I  mean,  I'll  give  you  another  hundred  dollars  for  them, 
and  we'll  call  it  square." 

"  It's  Mark  Waters,"  Molly  whispered  her  companion, 
and  Bill  said:  "  Dose  letters  ain't  for  sale.  Dere  goin' 
t'  Tom  Lyon,  now,  and  if  you 

"  Tom  Lyon,  the  thief  who  stole  them !"  said  Waters, 
in  sudden  rage. 

"  You  lie!"  gasped  Bill,  straightening  up  with  a  pain 
ful  effort,  and  stepping  close  to  Waters.  As  he  did  so 


266  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

Waters'  right  arm  shot  out  of  the  window  and  his 
clenched  fist  struck  Bill  in  the  face.  As  the  weak  man 
staggered  and  fell  heavily  to  the  sidewalk  the  driver 
whipped  up  his  horse,  and  the  carriage  quickly  disap 
peared  round  the  first  corner  to  Broadway.  Some 
passers-by  who  had  seen  this  called  to  a  policeman  to 
stop  the  carriage,  but  at  a  sign  from  Bill,  Molly  said, 
"No,  no,  it  was  an  accident." 

"I  can't  go  no  furder,  Molly,"  Bill  whispered,  when 
some  men  had  helped  him  to  his  feet;  and  heavily  and 
wearily  they  dragged  their  way  back  to  Mott  street. 

"  I  was  near  gone  anyway,  Molly,"  Bill  said,  when  he 
was  again  lying  in  the  room,  "but  de  punch  and  de  fall 
has  done  me.  I'll  soon  be  counted  out.  You  take  de 
letters  t'  Tom,  and  tell  him  if  he  don't  mind  comin'  I'd 
like  t'  see  him." 

Molly  left  the  room  without  car-fare.  She  knew  there 
was  a  little  change  in  Bill's  pocket,  but  she  did  not  take 
it,  saying  to  herself:  "  I  wouldn't  like  the  gang  to  know 
he  died  without  a  cent  in  his  pocket."  First  she  ran 
over  to  East  Broadway  and  induced  the  doctor,  to  whom 
she  had  already  paid  most  of  the  money  she  got  from 
Waters,  to  make  one  visit  on  trust.  Then  she  went  to 
Tom's. 

The  denizens  of  Mott  street  looked  in  wonder  as  they 
saw  one  of  their  own  number  hurrying  along,  almost 
dragged  by  a  tall  young  man  in  evening  dress  and  fash 
ionable  top-coat.  When  this  couple  reached  Bill's  room 
the  doctor,  already  there,  shook  his  head  at  Tom,  and 
Molly,  who,  with  scared  eyes  saw  the  sign,  threw  her 
self  on  the  floor  by  the  side  of  her  dying  lover.  Tom 
knelt  by  his  other  side : 

"Tom!" 

"Yes,  Bill." 


A  Flickering  Light  Goes  Out.  267 

"Would  you  mind  askin'  Dad  t'  forgive  me,  Tom?" 

"  He  will  forgive  you.  He  would  any  time  you  asked, 
Bill.  Do  you  hear  me  ?" 

"Yes,  Tom." 

"Can't  you  ask  God  to  forgive  you?" 

"  He  wouldn't  forgive  a  mug  like  me." 

"  He  will  if  you  ask,  and  are  repentant." 

Bill  was  silent  for  some  time;  then  he  felt  for  Tom's 
hand,  and  held  it  as  he  whispered,  "  How  is  dat,  Tom; 
dat  repentant?" 

"  If  you  are  sorry  for  the  evil  you  have  done." 

"I'm  sorry  I  wasn't  straight,  like  you." 

"  No,  no!  Bill ;  not  like  me:  sorry  for  the  evil  you've 
done." 

"  I'm  sore  on  meself  for  havin  been  crooked.  Is  dat 
right?" 

"Yes,  Bill." 

There  was  another  silence.  The  dying  man  drew  his 
foster-brother  nearer  to  him,  and  then  whispered  more 
faintly:  "How  shall  I  ask  Him,  Tom?" 

"  Say :  'God  forgive  me,  a  repentant  sinner. ' ' 

"Tom!" 

"Yes,  Bill." 

"  Can  He  hear  me?" 

"Yes,  Bill." 

"God  forgive  me,  a  repentant  sinner.     Molly!" 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

TOM'S  VINDICATION,   AND  MOLLY'S  TRIBUTE. 

WHEN  Tom  had  paid  the  doctor,  who  agreed  to  make 
all  necessary  arrangements  about  having  the  funeral 
from  Dan's  home,  he  gave  Molly  all  the  money  he  had 
left,  and  made  her  promise  that  she  would  come  to  his 
studio  in  the  morning  and  go  with  him  to  Mulberry 
Court.  Then  Tom  hurried  to  Police  Headquarters. 
He  found  detective-sergeant  Cullen  first,  and  with  him 
went  to  the  office  of  the  same  Inspector  before  whom 
he  had  appeared  on  Waters'  accusation.  The  Inspector 
listened  with  intense  interest  to  Tom's  story;  read  over 
the  letters  Molly  had  given  Tom  ;  questioned  him  about 
Teresa,  and  smiled  in  what  seemed  to  be  grim  satisfac 
tion  when  Tom  assured  him  he  was  positive  Teresa 
had  never  received  from  Mark  Waters  any  remittances 
from  Blue  Canon. 

"  That  puts  Mr.  Mark  Waters  just  where  I  want  him !" 
growled  the  Inspector.  "And  he  tried  to  make  a 
monkey  of  me  by  getting  me  to  bring  you  in  for  that 
theft!"  The  Inspector  turned  to  Tom  and  added,  "  You 
may  not  know  that  Charles  Dean,  your  old  boss  at  the 
Tivoli,  threatened  to  have  my  shield  taken  away  from 
me  for  that  fluke. " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Tom,  "  I  knew  it.  It  was  my  father 
who  got  him  to  let  up  on  you. " 

"Your  father!"  exclaimed  the  Inspector,  reddening  a 
little ;  "  well,  that  don't  make  me  feel  any  more  cheerful 

268 


Tom's  Vindication,  and  Molly's  Tribute.        269 

about  Mark  Waters.  All  we  have  to  do  is  to  prove  these 
are  not  trick  letters — that  they  really  came  from  Waters' 
office.  That  will  be  easy  enough  through  Chung?  Cul- 
len,  send  a  man  out  to  bring  Chung  in  here,  right 
away!" 

When  Cullen  had  done  this,  the  Inspector  added : 

"  I  want  you  two  to  stay  around  Headquarters  here 
until  I've  had  a  little  business  chat  with  Chung.  If 
he  is  easy,  and  I  guess  he  will  be  (Cullen  smiled  behind 
his  hand),  I'll  have  everything  dead  to  rights  on  this  Mr. 
Mark  Waters;  and  then,  Cullen,  I  want  you  to  bring 
him  in.  Do  you  know  where  to  locate  him?" 

"  He  will  be  at  the  opening  of  the  Mayfair  to-night," 
Tom  interrupted. 

The  Inspector  strolled  up  and  down  the  room  two  or 
three  times,  referring  to  the  letters  as  he  did  so.  Then 
he  said  to  Tom : 

"These  two  people,  Teresa  and  Carminella,  are 
friends  of  yours?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Tom.  "Carminella  is  'La  Cortese,' 
who  is  in  the  Mayfair  opening." 

"Well  then,"  continued  the  Inspector,  "you  will 
do  me  a  favor  if  you  will  have  them  here  when  Cullen 
brings  Waters  in.  I  only  want  to  get  their  statement, 
in  his  presence,  that  he  has  appropriated  the  money  he 
admits  here,  in  this  letter  of  his,  he  received  for  them." 

The  man  who  had  been  dispatched  for  Chung  soon 
returned  with  that  blandly  smiling  Chinaman  by  his 
side.  As  he  was  brought  into  the  Inspector's  room 
Cullen  and  Tom  went  out  together. 

"  I  guess  we'll  have  time  to  walk  around  a  block  or  two, 
while  the  Inspector  puts  that  Chink  through  the  4 third 
degree!'"  the  detective  remarked 

Tom  had  heard  of  the  police  operation  known  as  the 


270  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

"  third  degree,"  but  he  knew  it  would  be  useless  to  ques 
tion  Cullen  about  it. 

When  Chung  was  left  alone  with  the  Inspector  he 
added  to  the  blandness  of  his  smile  and  asked  softly: 

"  You  wan  tee  see  me?     Chung  velly  good  man. " 

The  Inspector  did  not  reply,  did  not  look  at  Chung ; 
in  fact  seemed  oblivious  of  his  presence.  He  went  over 
to  his  desk  and  examined  the  letters  intently.  This  si 
lence  had  the  effect  of  effacing  Chung's  smile.  When  it 
had  continued  two — five — ten  minutes,  he  became  nerv 
ous;  and  when,  by  craning  his  neck,  he  caught  sight  of 
the  letters  the  Inspector  was  studying  he  began  to  trem 
ble.  One,  two,  three,  four,  five  minutes  more  passed  in 
the  same  silence,  and  then  Chung  found  his  legs  were  so 
unsteady  that  he  sat  down  in  a  chair.  When  he  did 
this  the  Inspector,  carrying  the  letters  with  him,  walked 
slowly  to  within  a  foot  of  Chung  and  said,  with  an  ugly 
sneer : 

"  Well,  you  thief !  what  have  you  got  to  say  for  your 
self?" 

Chung  began  in  a  trembling  voice  to  rattle  off  his  fa 
miliar  story  of  how  he  entered  the  Niantic  building  after 
the  theft  was  discovered.  The  Inspector  let  him  talk 
on  undisturbed  so  long  that  Chung  took  heart,  regained 
his  smile  and  steadied  his  voice,  when  suddenly,  like  a 
dart  of  lightning,  the  Inspector's  big  open  hand  struck 
Chung  on  the  side  of  his  face  and  sent  him  sprawling 
across  the  room.  The  Inspector,  without  looking  at 
Chung,  went  to  his  desk  and  rang  a  bell.  From  an  ad 
joining  room  a  man  came  in  and,  without  looking  at 
either  of  the  occupants  of  the  room,  walked  quietly  to  a 
writing-table,  opened  a  note-book,  dipped  a  pen  in  ink 
and  silently  waited  without  looking  up.  Then  the  In 
spector  said,  in  a  low,  stern  voice : 


CHUNQ. 
'The  Inspector  let  him  talk  on."— Page  270. 


Tom's  Vindication,  and  Molly's  Tribute.        271 

"Chung,  you  have  lied  enough.  Get  up,  sit  in  that 
chair  again,  and  tell  the  truth.  Be  mighty  careful  that 
you  tell  the  exact  truth,  and  that  your  story  corresponds 
to  this  (the  Inspector  picked  up  a  blank  sheet  of  paper 
and  pretended  to  be  looking  at  some  writing),  or  you'll 
have  more  trouble." 

Without  an  instant's  hesitation,  Chung  told  every  de 
tail  of  his  theft  of  the  pocket-book,  and  every  circum 
stance  connected  with  it,  including  his  offer  to  the  ward- 
man,  and  the  recent  mysterious  disappearance  of  the 
letters  from  his  office.  Then  the  Inspector  said  to  the 
stenographer  who  had  taken  down  Chung's  story :  "  Send 
a  man  in  here  to  take  this  Chinaman  to  the  Tombs,  and 
tell  Cullen  and  Lyon  to  come  in  here." 

When  Tom  and  Cullen  entered  the  office  the  Inspector 
said:  "Tom  Lyon,  it's  not  a  nice  thing  for  an  honest 
man  to  be  brought  in  here  on  suspicion,  even  in  the 
pleasantest  way  we  can  do  it.  I  am  sorry  I  had  to  bring 
you  in,  and  it  may  be  a  satisfaction  to  you  to  know  that 
I  have  the  confession  of  the  real  thief  in  that  case." 

"Satisfaction!"  gasped  Tom.  "That  was  the  most 
horrible  experience  of  my  life,  Mr.  Inspector.  A  man 
accused  me  of  theft !  As  I  have  never  actually  disproved 
his  charge  it  has  been  a  nightmare  a  thousand  times 
since ;  and  to  my  father,  too,  I  know ;  though  we  have 
never  spoken  of  it  again." 

"  It's  all  right  now, "  said  the  Inspector  heartily.  "  It's 
getting  late,"  he  went  on  briskly.  "  Do  you  think  those 
people  we  want  will  be  at  the  theatre  yet?" 

"If  we  hurry,"  said  Tom,  looking  at  his  watch,  "we 
shall  find  them  all." 

Molly  waited  by  the  side  of  her  dead  lover  until  the 
men  came  from  the  undertaker's,  and  then  she  went  out 


272  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

into  the  street  and  turned  north,  making  her  way  as 
long  as  she  could  by  the  quieter  and  poorer  side-streets, 
where  her  figure  would  not  attract  attention.  But  at 
last  she  turned  into  the  busier  and  brighter  streets,  and 
crept  along  until  she  came  to  an  open  florist's  shop,  into 
which  she  turned. 

"We  have  no  flowers  for  pedlers,"  said  the  clerk, 
supposing  Molly  wanted  to  buy  faded  flowers  which 
florists  dispose  of  to  street  venders.  Molly  held  out  the 
money  Tom  had  given  her,  with  the  bitterly  gained 
knowledge,  early  turned  to  instinct  in  the  children  of 
the  pavements,  that  there  was  the  talisman  to  conjure 
the  toleration  which  would  gain  her  desire — it  was  not 
enough  to  evoke  civility. 

"  I  want  some  flowers  for  a  coffin,"  she  said.  "  White 
flowers;  the  best  this  will  buy,"  and  gave  the  clerk  the 
address  of  the  undertaker. 

The  clerk  looked  at  the  bills  with  manifest  suspicion 
as  he  counted  them. 

"Will  you  send  your  card?"  he  asked  her. 

"My  card?" 

"  Yes,  your  carte  de  visite ;  your  name,"  said  the  clerk, 
winking  at  the  other  clerks  who  were  giggling. 

"Oh,  never  mind  the  name,"  said  Molly,  wearily. 
"  Bill  will  know  who  sent  them :  I  am  the  only  one  who 
cares. " 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

TWO  TRIUMPHS  AT   THE  MAYFAIR. 

IT  was  the  greatest  night  in  the  history  of  that  theatre, 
the  Saturday-night  opening  when  Marie  Leon  and  La 
Cortese  made  their  first  and  last  appearance  on  the  stage 
of  the  Mayfair.  The  police  early  stopped  the  sale  of 
seats,  yet,  early  as  it  was,  they  conveniently  neglected 
to  do  so  until  not  another  spectator  could  find  even 
standing-room. 

Philip  Peyton  was  there  in  a  box  with  the  ladies  of 
the  Hazelhurst  household,  and  Tom  was  expected  to 
complete  the  box  party.  Mark  Waters  occupied  another 
box  with  the  same  three  companions  who  once  accom 
panied  him  to  the  Tivoli.  Waters  asked  the  young  New 
Yorker  by  his  side:  "Who  are  those  women  in  the  box 
with  Phil  Peyton?  Are  they  anybody?" 

"Anybody!  No,  they  are  only  Mrs.  Hazelhurst  and 
her  daughters ;  leaders  of  the  oldest,  swellest  set  in  New 
York,"  his  companion  answered. 

"  How  the  devil  does  that  cub  ring  in  with  such  peo 
ple?"  Waters  growled. 

"That  cub,"  the  New  Yorker  drawled,  "happened  to 
be  bred  in  the  same  class ;  he  ranks  with  the  Hazelhursts 
in  the  Kennel  Register.  His  brother  George  is  to  marry 
the  elder  of  those  girls.  By  the  way,"  he  added,  turn 
ing  and  regarding  Waters  curiously,  "  I  heard  at  the 
club  that  George  Peyton  returns  from  the  West  to-night 
with  money  to  burn." 

273 


274  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

"Not  until  to-morrow  night,"  Waters  said  quickly. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot :  you  manage  the  Peyton  estate. " 

"Damned  little  estate  left,"  Waters  responded  un 
easily. 

"Yes,  I  heard  that  at  the  club,  too,"  the  New  Yorker 
said,  with  slow  insolence,  and  turned  to  stare  gloomily 
at  the  audience. 

In  the  front  row  of  the  orchestra  sat  two  striking  and 
interested  figures:  Dan  Lyon  and  Dominico  Cortese. 
Dan's  features  are  moulded  in  that  Irish  cast  which  so 
strongly  resembles  the  French,  and  which  are  frequently 
found  among  the  North  Irelanders.  His  fine,  stern  old 
face,  pale  and  smooth-shaven,  was  in  exact  contrast  to 
Dominico's — red,  round,  heavily  moustached  and  broad 
ly  grinning.  Dan  frequently  glanced  at  the  Hazelhurst 
box,  for  he  knew  that  Tom  was  expected  there,  and  he 
wondered  what  was  detaining  him.  No  stage  perform 
ance  could  have  such  attraction  for  Dan  as  the  sight  of 
Tom  sitting  in  a  box  with  the  fine  people  he  had 
made  his  friends.  Once,  when  he  glanced  that  way, 
Dan  caught  Eleanor  Hazelhurst's  eye,  and  she  smiled 
and  bowed;  and  when  he  made  sure  the  salutation  was 
meant  for  him  Dan  rose  in  his  place,  and  stood,  while 
with  dignified  deliberation  he  bent  in  deep  acknowledg 
ment.  People  in  the  audience  who  knew  the  Hazel- 
hursts  concluded  that  the  tall  old  gentleman  in  the 
long  frock  coat,  with  cropped,  straight-standing  white 
hair,  who  saluted  their  box,  must  be  some  celebrity; 
perhaps  a  member  of  the  French  Chamber  of  Depu 
ties:  such  a  stranger  was  likely  to  have  letters  to  the 
Hazelhursts.  Eleanor's  mother  asked  who  the  stranger 
was,  and  Eleanor  answered  only:  "  He  is  T.  Fitz  Gerald 
Lyon's  father,"  whereupon  Mrs.  Hazelhurst  regarded 
the  Lord  of  Mulberry  Court  with  entire  approval. 


Two  Triumphs  at  the  Mayfair.  275 

But  who,  many  wondered,  could  be  the  extraordinary 
gentleman  sitting  by  the  French  deputy's  side,  and 
evidently  his  companion?  Dominico,  for  this  tremen 
dous  occasion,  had  achieved  the  acme  of  gorgeousness ; 
a  butterfly,  any  number  of  butterflies,  in  comparison 
would  look  like  a  flight  of  humble  moths.  On  his 
feet  were  patent-leather  pumps  which  were,  of  physical 
necessity,  so  broad  at  one  place  that,  to  bring  them  to 
the  fine  point  Dominico  demanded,  the  maker  had 
been  compelled  to  carry  them  out  so  many  inches 
beyond  his  toes  they  resembled  in  length  the  slippers 
of  a  Fourteenth-century  courtier.  His  tight  laven 
der  trousers  failed,  by  design,  to  connect  with  the  tops 
of  his  pumps,  thereby  artfully  disclosing  a  section 
of  scarlet  hose.  His  dress-coat  was  reddish-brown, 
and  was  fairly  crusted  with  enormous  shell  buttons, 
and  generously  revealed  a  low-cut  vest  of  purple, 
crossed  with  a  watch-chain  of  mighty  links.  His  loose 
ly  flowing  scarf  was  Dominico's  pride,  his  own  unaided 
invention.  It  consisted  of  two  voluminous  breadths  of 
silk  wound  together;  one  a  pale  salmon  in  color,  the 
other  a  brilliant  green.  In  his  shirt-front  was  a  cluster 
of  brilliants  screwed  into  the  very  centre  of  the  bosom, 
leaving  two  button-holes,  one  above  and  one  below,  un 
adorned.  His  hair  and  moustache  were  rich  with  oil 
and  perfume,  and  his  red-scraped  neck  and  face  gleam 
ing  with  perspiration.  As  often  as  Dan  glanced  furtive 
ly  at  the  box  to  see  if  Tom  had  arrived,  Dominico 
turned  boldly  in  his  seat  and  looked  more  anxiously  at 
the  gallery.  At  last  he  uttered  an  exclamation  of 
joy — Riccodonna  and  Signora  Riccodonna  were  in  the 
gallery  front-row  seats  Dominico  had  sent  them ;  they 
had  seen  him,  and  their  eyes  and  mouths  were  open 
in  amazement.  It  was  the  triumph  Dominico  had 


276  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

planned,  and  he  perspired  trickling  rivulets  of  perfect 
bliss. 

There  was  plenty  of  excitement  in  the  front  of  the 
house,  but  it  was  nothing  compared  to  that  which  had 
caused  almost  a  panic  behind  the  scenes.  Three  times 
the  call-boy  had  gone  to  Marie  Leon's  room  and  asked 
if  she  was  ready,  and  three  times  retired,  unsuccessfully 
dodging  slippers  and  shoes  that  impetuous  lady  had 
thrown  at  him.  The  stage-manager  was  in  despair,  and 
said  he  would  call  on  the  star  himself ;  condemning  in  im 
polite  language  the  tempers  of  all  stars,  and  especially 
those  Irish-Americans  who  assumed  French  names. 
In  her  dressing-room  he  found  only  her  French  maid 
preparing  Marie's  next  change  of  toilet.  She  informed 
the  stage-manager  that  Ma'm'selle  Leon  had  gone  to  La 
Cortese's  dressing-room  in  tears  and  a  horrible  temper. 
That  was  a  fact.  Marie  was  sitting  on  a  trunk  in  Car- 
minella's  room  smoking  a  cigarette  (medicinally:  she 
said  it  cleared  her  throat)  and  weeping.  She  was  talk 
ing  to  Teresa  between  puffs  and  sobs:  "Tom  Lyon  has 
treated  me  shabbily  every  time  we've  met,  and  here  is 
this  letter  from  Uncle  Dan  saying  I  must  not  go  over  to 
Mulberry  Court,  where,  I  wrote  him,  the  Commodore 
and  I  would  go  to-morrow.  They  are  the  only  blood 
kin  I  have  in  the  world,  and  why  should  they  be  so  par 
ticular,  when  every  one  else  treats  me  as  if  I  were  a 
duchess  and  regularly  married!" 

"  Dan  is  very  particular  about  the  marriage,"  Teresa 
said. 

The  long-suffering  stage-manager  appeared.  "  Miss 
L£on,"  he  said  pleadingly,  "It's  half-past  eight;  we 
are  announced  to  ring  up  at  eight-fifteen.  The 
house  is  packed,  the  police  have  stopped  the  sale, 
and  every  critic  in  town  is  in  his  seat.  We  can't  ring 


MAGGIE     LYON. 

'She  was  talking  to  Teresa  between  puffs  and  sobs."— Page  276. 
23 


Two  Triumphs  at  the  May  fair.  277 

up  until  you  say  you  are  ready.  You  are  on  in  the 
first  scene." 

Miss  Leon  turned  her  big-  blue  wet  eyes  toward  the 
stage  manager,  thoughtfully  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke 
toward  him,  turned  her  back  on  him  and  said,  "  Teresa, 
I  want  to  talk  with  you  about  this  after  the  show.  Car- 
minella,  you  look  lovely  in  that  ragged  street-dress.  I 
had  one  just  like  it,  I  remember  it  perfectly,  when  I 
lived  on  Cherry  Hill." 

The  stage-manager  groaned,  and  pulled  his  hair. 
"  The  critics  get  in  a  bad  humor  at  these  delays,  Miss 
Leon,"  he  cried. 

Miss  Leon  walked  over  to  Carminella's  dressing  mir 
ror,  repaired  from  a  paint-box  the  damages  done  by  her 
tears,  turned  to  the  stage-manager  as  if  she  had  not  seen 
him  before,  and  said,  "Why  don't  you  ring  up?  I've 
been  ready  half  an  hour!" 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  good-natured  interest  in  the 
appearance  of  Marie  Leon.  The  audience  knew,  for 
the  newspapers  had  left  no  detail  untouched,  that  she 
had  been  a  New  York  ballet-girl ;  that  she  had  risen 
to  the  minor  roles  in  musical  burlesques  and  comic 
opera;  that  her  voice  had  attracted  the  attention  of  a 
wealthy  New  Yorker  under  whose  patronage  she  had 
gone  to  Paris  and  studied  music  for  three  years;  that 
she  had  made  a  debut  in  comic  opera  in  London,  said  to 
be  successful ;  and  had  returned  to  her  native  city  the 
triumphant  possessor  of  a  Paris  wardrobe,  a  London 
accent,  and  a  New  York  millionaire. 

It  was  generally  expected  that  any  success  she  would 
achieve  here  would  be  due  to  her  jewels  and  wardrobe, 
both  of  which  were  known  to  be  splendid.  That  indul 
gent  expectation  was  realized  on  the  instant  of  her  en 
trance  upon  the  Mayfair  stage.  From  her  boots  to  her 


278  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

coiffure,  her  gown,  her  gloves,  her  girdle,  her  fan,  her 
lorgnette,  her  jewels — all  were  gorgeous ;  all  were  perfect 
in  design  and  taste,  and  evoked  quick  honest  applause 
from  the  critically  observant  and  admiring  female  half 
of  the  audience.  Marie  had  gained  the  approval  of  the 
women  of  New  York,  the  most  discriminating  judges 
in  the  world  of  handsome  and  correct  clothing.  But 
another  kind  of  appreciation  was  started  before  she  had 
finished  the  first  phrase  of  her  opening  aria.  She  had 
plenty  of  ambition,  and  this  with  her  desire  to  justify 
the  expenditure  of  her  patron  during  her  three  )Tears  in 
Paris,  had  kept  her  hard  at  her  studies;  and  Marie  Leon, 
to  the  equal  surprise  and  delight  of  her  audience,  showed 
that  she  not  only  had  a  voice  but  knew  how  to  sing — a 
combination  in  a  light-opera  star  that  made  the  critics 
wonder  if  their  ears  were  not  playing  them  tricks.  When 
she  made  her  exit  it  was  plain  to  the  habitues  that  the 
audience  was  still  in  a  state  of  lively  expectancy :  La 
Cortese  was  yet  to  be  seen. 

There  came  upon  the  empty  stage  an  Italian,  wheel 
ing  one  of  those  delightful  piano-organs  without  which 
the  streets  of  New  York  would  be  drear  indeed.  He 
stopped  up-stage,  centre,  and  began  playing  a  lively 
popular  tune.  This  brought  from  the  wings,  right  and 
left,  a  number  of  children  and  half-grown  boys  and 
girls  who  began  dancing  to  the  music.  It  was  such 
a  scene  as  you  may  witness  any  bright  day  if  you 
will  walk  a  block  or  two  east  or  west  of  Broadway 
below  Madison  Square.  The  audience  had  no  idea 
of  what  this  was  leading  up  to.  Some  laughed,  some 
looked  uncomfortable,  and  some  said,  "This  won't 
do,  you  know,  for  a  Broadway  theatre. "  One  of  the 
older  girls  stopped  dancing,  looked  off  the  stage  and 
cried:  "  La  Cortese!"  The  other  children  took  up  the 


Two  Triumphs  at  the  Mayfair.  279 

cry,  and  there  was  a  shrill   chorus   of  "  La   Cortese ! 
La  Cortese!" 

As  the  children  gradually  made  a  tableau  round  the 
organ-grinder,  Carminella  came  dancing  on  the  stage. 
The  claque  started  an  applause  but  their  task  was  hope 
less.  The  whole  audience  sat  in  frosty  silence.  Was 
this  the  Cortese  that  the  papers  had  been  writing  about, 
and  picturing  for  weeks?  this  long-legged  girl — pretty  to 
be  sure — but  dressed  as  a  child,  with  flowing  hair  and  a 
cheap — actually  a  torn — calico  frock ! 

Carminella  felt  the  shock  of  failure  and  her  lips  tight 
ened.  Dominico  groaned  aloud.  The  tears  came  to 
Eleanor  Hazelhurst's  eyes;  the  New  Yorker  in  Waters' 
box  sneered:  "Why  don't  they  leave  this  sort  of  thing 
to  Larrigan's  theatre?"  The  stage-manager  cursed  and 
exclaimed:  "I  told  Tom  Lyon  it  would  be  a  frost,  I 
knew  it !"  But  Teresa  murmured  over  to  herself,  "  Pazi- 
enza!  Pazienza!  She  will  bring  them!" 

The  industrious  organ-grinder  stopped  and  Carmi 
nella  walked  up  the  stage  laughing,  and  the  children 
made  a  mechanical  chorus  to  her  musical  notes.  The 
grinder  began  again,  this  time  with  the  most  popular 
street-song  of  the  day.  Carminella  again  faced  the 
audience  and  began  dancing,  making  her  way  down 
the  stage  slowly.  Some  in  the  audience  began  to  real 
ize  her  wonderful  grace,  and  there  was  a  little  murmur, 
a  little  evidence  of  warmth.  Carminella  felt  it,  and  as 
if  it  had  been  her  cue,  began  singing  the  song  in  a  sweet, 
true,  untrained  contralto  voice.  As  she  did  so  she  elab 
orated  her  dancing  a  little,  never  carrying  it  much 
beyond  the  actual  performances  of  children  dancing 
before  a  street  organ,  the  difference  being  in  the  rich 
grace  of  her  body;  the  movements  of  her  head,  like  a 
wild  flower  on  its  stalk  when  it  is  stirred  by  the  slight- 


280  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

est  breeze ;  the  weaving  and  waving  of  her  hands  and 
arms,  as  full  of  expression  as  chanted  verse.  She  seemed 
now  to  be  moving  in  some  other  medium  than  air,  so 
slowly  and  lightly  her  feet  fell,  and  her  body — have  you 
ever  seen  a  trout,  free  and  undisturbed  in  its  native  ele 
ment,  seen  it  turn  in  curves  as  suave  as  a  caress? 

The  audience  relaxed  more.  The  children  took  up 
the  chorus  of  the  song  when  she  came  to  that,  and  some  in 
the  top  gallery  joined  with  them ;  then  more,  and  others 
in  the  lower  gallery.  Carminella  began  to  smile,  and 
then  more  and  more  of  the  audience  joined  in  the  chorus. 
This  was  something  new  to  those  in  the  fashionable 
parts  of  the  house,  but  it  was  contagious,  and  they,  too, 
were  swinging  in  with  the  chorus.  The  music  and  Car 
minella  stopped,  and  the  whole  audience  broke  into  a 
quick,  sharp,  volley  of  applause.  The  hand-organ  and 
the  children  left  the  stage,  and  Carminella,  now  almost 
directly  over  the  footlights,  stood  there  and  laughed  at 
the  audience,  laughed  so  heartily,  naturally,  and  gayly 
at  her  hard-won  triumph  that  the  audience  laughed 
back,  and  renewed  their  applause.  Then  Carminella, 
still  laughing,  ran  off  and  into  Teresa's  waiting 
arms. 

"It  was  Tom's  success,"  she  panted  to  her  mother. 
"  He  planned  it.  It  is  his  success.  But  where  is  Tom? 
"  He  is  not  in  that  box. " 

"  I  do  not  know,  my  child.  But  you  must  go  on 
again.  Hear  them  applaud!" 

Again  and  again,  and  yet  again,  she  went  on  and 
danced  and  sang,  until  the  audience  at  last  reluctantly 
let  her  go  in  very  pity;  although  Dominico  and  Dan 
persisted  in  along-continued  duet  with  their  heels  and 
hands  after  every  one  else  had  become  silent :  Domi 
nico  with  closed  eyes  and  in  red,  damp  ecstasy ;  Dan  with 


Two  Triumphs  at  the  Mayfair.  281 

a  look  of  serious  defiance  as  if  some  one  had  ordered  him 
to  stop. 

But  where  was  Tom?  Dan,  when  he  had  recovered 
from  the  excitement  of  Carminella's  success,  looked 
again  toward  the  box  where  his  son  was  expected. 
Philip  Peyton  motioned  to  him,  and  Dan  made  his  way 
in  front  of  the  first  row,  to  the  edge  of  the  box. 

"  Where  is  Tom?"  Peyton  asked.  "  Did  he  come  from 
Long  Island  with  you?" 

"He  came  over  ahead  of  me,"  Dan  replied.  "I 
thought  you  might  be  knowing  where  he  was,  sir." 

"  No,  I  don't,  but  I'll  go  to  the  stage  door  and  inquire ; 
he  may  be  behind,"  said  Peyton. 

Philip's  inquiry  for  Tom  at  the  stage  door  was  carried 
to  Teresa.  "  Did  she  know  where  Mr.  Lyon  was?" 

No,  she  did  not.  Carminella,  who  heard  the  message, 
asked  who  had  inquired  for  him  and,  when  she  learned, 
told  the  messenger  to  send  Mr.  Peyton  to  the  dressing- 
room. 

"  Something  has  happened  to  him!"  said  Carminella, 
in  sudden  alarm,  when  she  heard  that  neither  Philip  nor 
Dan  knew  where  he  was.  "  I  wrote  to  him  to-day  that 
I  must  see  him.  He  would  be  here  if  something  had 
not  happened."  In  her  nervousness  and  excitement  she 
began  to  cry.  Then,  possibly  with  half-formulated  in 
tention  of  enlisting  the  whole  force  of  the  theatre  in 
the  search  for  Tom,  she  declared  she  would  not  dance 
again  unless  he  was  there.  If  he  did  not  come  she 
would  not  dance,  she  would  go  and  look  for  him  her 
self.  When  this  cheerless  intelligence  was  conveyed  to 
the  already  distraught  stage-manager,  crestfallen  from 
another  bout  with  Maggie  Lyon,  he  threw  up  his  hands 
and  demanded  in  a  voice  of  agony  to  know,  first  why  he 
had  ever  been  born,  and  then  what  was  the  matter  with 


282  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

La  Cortese.  The  call-boy  who  had  conveyed  the  mes 
sage  answered  briskly,  "  She  won't  dance  because  Mr. 
Tom  Lyon  ain't  here  to  see  her,  sir.  She  says  he's  got 
lost,  and  she's  going  out  herself  to  ring  in  a  general 
alarm,  sir." 

"  Oh,  lord!  a  little  trick  like  that  can  be  turned,"  said 
the  stage-manager  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  Now,  look 
here,  you,"  to  the  call-boy,  "you  chase  around  to  the 
front  of  the  house,  see?  Then  you  chase  back  to  La 
Cortese,  understand?  Then  you  say  to  her,  all  out  of 
breath,  see?  'Tom  Lyon  is  in  the  front.  He  came  late 
and  he  can't  get  any  further  than  the  lobby.'  See?" 

"Sure,"  answered  the  call-boy,  and  he  obeyed  these 
instructions  to  the  letter,  and  Carminella  was  satisfied. 

But  Tom  Lyon  and  detective-sergeant  Cullen  had  not 
yet  started  from  Police  Headquarters. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

"THE  HAND  OF  GOD  HAS  STRUCK!" 

THE  knowing  ones,  the  first-nighters,  the  habitues, 
the  critics,  were  all  of  one  opinion  with  the  occasionals 
and  the  non-critical ;  the  Mayfair  theatre  could  safely 
cancel  all  its  dates  for  the  entire  season.  Marie  Leon 
and  La  Cortese  would  fill  the  theatre  until  the  next 
summer's  heat  drove  its  patrons  out  of  town.  In  the 
expression  of  this  judgment  La  Cortese's  name  was 
generally  mentioned  first.  In  the  last  act  she  gave  the 
Greek  dance,  already  described  when  she  appeared  at 
the  Hazelhursts'.  The  stage-manager  had  implored 
her  to  broaden  it;  there  was  not  enough  "go"  in  it,  he 
declared.  She  did  not  say  why,  but  she  refused  to  alter 
a  step  of  the  dance.  Of  course,  the  reason  was,  it  was  a 
favorite  of  Tom's. 

She  dressed  for  the  street  hurriedly  after  her  last 
dance,  which  repeated  the  success  of  her  first,  for  she 
supposed  Tom  would  be  waiting  for  her.  The  stage 
entrance  opened  on  a  quiet  side-street,  and  as  Tom  did 
not  appear  behind  the  scenes  when  she  was  dressed  for 
the  street,  Carminella  wanted  to  go  to  the  entrance  and 
wait  for  him ;  but  Teresa  was  detained.  Maggie  Lyon, 
not  yet  dressed,  had  resumed  her  tears  and  her  hygienic 
smoke  where  she  had  left  them  off— the  cigarette  rested 
the  throat  after  singing,  she  said— and  was  again  in  Car- 
minella's  room  asking  Teresa  over  and  over  again  why 
Dan  should  have  denied  her  his  house,  and  receiving 

283 


284  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

the  same  slow  and  cautious  reply :     "  Dan  is  very  par 
ticular  about  the  marriage." 

"But  for  the  love  of  heaven,  Teresa,"  said  Maggie, 
lapsing  from  her  London  accent  to  the  vernacular,  "  I 
wonder  he  wouldn't  be  satisfied  with  me  living  as  quiet 
ly  as  I  do.  There  isn't  another  woman  on  the  stage  of 
my  age — say,  Teresa,  how  old  am  I  anyway?  I've  lied 
about  it  that  much,  I  wonder  I  know  I  was  ever  born!" 

Teresa  laughed  and  said,  "  You  were  my  age  fifteen 
years  ago,  but  you  are  much  younger  than  I  am,  now, 
Maggie. ' 

"  How  old  are  you  then,  dear?"  asked  Maggie,  punc 
turing  a  ring  of  smoke  with  the  end  of  her  cigarette. 

"Thirty-five,"  answered  Teresa. 

"Well,  that's  not  too  old  to  marry,"  Maggie  said 
thoughtfully. 

This  conversation  was  upon  a  subject  Teresa  disliked 
to  discuss  in  Carminella's  hearing.  She  had  always 
succeeded  in  keeping  from  her  the  seamy  side  of  stage- 
folks'  lives.  She  spoke  to  her  in  Italian,  telling  her 
to  go  outside,  meaning  that  she  should  go  only  to  the 
long  entrance-way  leading  from  the  stage  door  to  the 
dressing-rooms;  but  Carminella  interpreted  this  to  be  a 
permission  to  go  outside  the  stage  door,  and  this  she 
did.  The  side-street  was  quiet,  and  only  Maggie  Lyon's 
coupe  stood  at  the  curb,  a  little  beyond  the  entrance. 
As  she  looked  up  and  down  she  saw  the  usual  midnight 
stream  of  people  passing  along  on  Broadway  in  one 
direction  and  on  Sixth  Avenue  in  the  other,  but  Tom, 
for  whom  she  looked,  was  nowhere  in  sight.  Dominico 
came  around  from  Broadway  and  joined  her  at  the  door. 

"Have  you  seen  Tom?"  she  asked. 

Dominico  had  not,  but  he  told  her  Dan  had  gone  to 
Tom's  studio  to  look  for  him. 


"The  Hand  of  God  Has  Struck!"  285 

"Then  they  lied  to  me!"  she  cried.  "They  told  me 
he  was  in  front!" 

As  they  stood  there  a  carriage  drove  up  and  stopped 
opposite  the  entrance,  behind  Maggie's  coupe,  and  Mark 
Waters  stepped  out  of  it,  leaving  the  carriage  door  open 
as  he  did  so.  He  lifted  his  hat  to  Carminella  but  did 
not  speak  to  her,  nor  did  she  to  him.  He  did  speak  to 
Dominico,  and  in  a  brisk  manner: 

"  Have  you  seen  the  manager?"  he  asked.  "  He  is 
looking  for  you." 

"  I  looked  for  him  but  could  not  find  him,"  said  Do 
minico. 

"  You  will  find  him  now  in  the  cafe  just  north  of  the 
box-office,"  said  Waters,  and  Dominico  started  off  with 
an  air  of  delighted  importance. 

Carminella  drew  back  toward  the  stage  door,  but 
Waters  quickly  stepped  between  her  and  it.  She  was 
not  frightened ;  it  occurred  to  her  that  Waters,  perhaps, 
meant  to  make  an  apology;  his  assumed  humility  sug 
gested  it.  She  stepped  on  to  the  sidewalk,  away  from 
him  however,  and  he  approached  her  saying,  "  I  only 
came  to  see  your  father,  but  I  can  guess  a  service  I  can 
do  for  you  if  you  are  looking  for  Tom  Lyon. " 

"  I  am,"  she  said  eagerly,  wholly  off  her  guard. 

"  See!  Isn't  that  he?"  he  said,  passing  her  and  walk 
ing  to  the  carriage  while  he  pointed  toward  Sixth 
avenue.  "Yes,"  he  added,  "you  can  see  him  from 
here." 

She  followed  him,  looking  in  the  direction  he  indi 
cated,  till  she  stood  close  to  the  curb,  when  he  suddenly 
lifted  her  off  her  feet,  forced  her  into  the  carriage, 
sprang  in  after  her,  slammed  the  door,  and  the  driver 
started  his  horses.  While  Waters  had  been  pointing 
toward  the  avenue,  Tom  Lyon  and  Cullen  came  rapidly 


286  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

down  the  street  from  Broadway.  They  were  not  twenty 
feet  away  when  the  carriage  door  slammed,  and  both 
heard  Carminella's  cry,  which  was  instantly  smothered. 
They  had  an  advantage  of  a  second  of  time  through 
Waters'  driver  having  to  turn  out  for  the  coupe  in  front 
of  him.  Tom  dashed  to  the  carriage  door  and  Cullen 
rushed  as  quickly  to  the  horses'  heads.  He  was  recog 
nized  as  an  officer  by  the  frightened  driver,  who  brought 
his  team  to  a  quick  stop.  At  the  same  instant  Tom  had 
wrenched  open  the  carriage  door  andCarminella  sprang 
into  his  arms. 

Cullen  then  jumped  into  the  carriage  and  dragged 
Waters  back  into  it  as  he  endeavored  to  escape  through 
the  opposite  door.  There  was  a  click  of  handcuffs,  and 
Cullen  put  his  head  out  of  the  door  and  said  quietly  to 
the  driver: 

**  Police  Headquarters,  my  good  man,  and  be  sure 
you  don't  lose  your  way." 

As  the  carriage  rolled  off,  Tom  carried  Carminella 
into  the  stage  entrance,  where  Teresa  met  them  and 
looked  with  startled,  dumb  alarm  at  the  white  rage  in 
both  their  faces.  When  Carminella  saw  her  mother  she 
left  Tom  and  with  strange  slowness  walked  to  her. 
With  lips  that  scarcely  moved  she  spoke  a  few  words  to 
her  in  Italian.  Teresa's  face  whitened  as  the  others, 
and  the  same  rage  came  into  it;  but  she  only  whispered 
"Santa  Maria  Virgine!"  and  her  right  arm  fell  to  her 
side  where  her  hand  sought  a  fold  of  her  dress  and  closed 
on  something  hard. 

11  Where  is  he?"  she  asked.  Tom,  as  well  as  he  could, 
explained  briefly,  and,  as  he  explained,  Philip  Peyton 
and  Dominico  came  to  the  entrance.  When  Peyton  had 
heard  a  little  of  the  story — that  Carminella  and  Teresa 
were  to  go  to  Headquarters — he  went  for  a  carriage,  re- 


"The  Hand  of  God  Has  Struck!"  287 

turned,  and  said  to  Tom :  "  Come ;  we  four  will  go  on. 
Dominico  can  wait  and  bring  your  father,  who  will  sure 
ly  return  here  when  he  finds  you  are  not  at  the  studio." 

Teresa  had  not  spoken  one  word  after  her  first  ex 
clamation.  She  sat  on  the  back  seat  of  the  carriage, 
her  left  arm  around  Carminella,  her  right  hidden  in  a 
fold  of  her  dress.  They  were  all  silent  on  the  drive  to 
Headquarters.  Peyton  tried  once  or  twice  to  learn  more 
of  the  night's  story  from  Tom,  but  met  no  response ;  and 
as  the  carriage  passed  electric  lights,  and  he  saw  the 
same  look  on  the  three  tense  faces  about  him,  he  felt  as 
if  he  were  taking  a  ride  in  a  cage  of  tigers. 

At  Headquarters  Cullen  met  them  and  took  them  into 
a  room  at  one  side  of  the  Inspector's  office,  where  they 
waited  for  Dan  and  Dominico. 

"  Is  he  here?  Ask  him  if  he  is  here?"  Teresa  said  to 
Tom  after  a  close  scrutiny  of  her  surroundings.  Cullen 
understood  to  whom  Teresa  referred,  and  told  her  that 
Waters  was  in  the  building,  and  would  be  produced 
before  the  Inspector  soon. 

"Can  I  see  him?"  Teresa  asked  this  so  softly  that 
Peyton,  who  was  still  uncomfortable  from  the  look  he 
had  seen  in  her  eyes,  regarded  her  in  astonishment. 

"Certainly,"  answered  the  detective.  "He  will  be 
confronted  with  you  before  the  Inspector." 

"  But  now?  May  I  not  see  him  alone — only  a  minute, " 
she  pleaded  in  a  tone  almost  of  tenderness ;  but  her  eyes 
were  gleaming,  and  her  right  arm  was  rigid  from  the 
tension  of  the  muscles  of  her  hand,  which  clenched 
something  in  a  fold  of  her  dress. 

"  Sorry,  madam,  but  you  cannot  see  him  except  before 
the  Inspector.  Here  are  the  others:  all  of  you  step  this 
way,  please." 

Dan  arrived,  looking  distressed  and  anxious.     It  was 


288  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

a  mental  peculiarity  of  Dominico's  that,  when  he  was 
greatly  excited,  he  not  only  could  not  speak  English 
well,  but  could  not  understand  it  clearly  either;  and  he 
had  received  an  impression  from  what  little  he  had  heard 
of  Tom's  story  that  Mark  Waters  had  ordered  the  arrest 
and  imprisonment  of  the  entire  party  for  conspiracy  to 
cheat  Carminella  out  of  the  ownership  of  California; 
and  Tom  was  also  charged  with  the  abduction  of  Car 
minella,  and  the  death  of  one  Bill  Williams.  This  story, 
as  well  as  his  excitement  allowed  him  to  tell  it,  he  had 
repeated  to  Dan  on  the  way  to  Headquarters.  Of  course, 
Dan  knew  Dominico  was  exploiting  hallucinations  of 
various  kinds,  yet  he  feared  that  Waters'  machinations 
had  once  more  been  directed  against  Tom,  and  it  was 
with  this  uncertainty  that  he,  with  the  others,  entered 
the  Inspector's  office.  He  put  his  hand  on  Tom's 
shoulder,  but  his  son  did  not  notice  him,  nor  seem  aware 
of  his  presence :  he  was  steadily  watching  Waters.  The 
latter  was  there,  not  knowing  why,  except  so  far  as  his 
conscience  informed  him ;  for  the  only  explanation  Cul- 
len  had  given  him  was:  "The  Inspector  wants  to  see 
you." 

Waters  was  making  an  heroic  effort  to  appear  right 
eously  indignant,  and  endeavored  to  meet  Tom's  steady 
gaze  with  a  look  of  scorn,  but  his  eyes  shifted.  They 
met  Teresa's  and  he  quailed  perceptibly.  She  stood 
erect  and  motionless,  one  arm  around  Carminella,  one 
by  her  side,  its  hand  still  hidden  in  the  folds  of  her 
dress.  Philip  had  watched  that  tense,  motionless  arm 
a  long  time.  It  seemed  to  fascinate  him,  and  he  stepped 
up  close  behind  her. 

The  Inspector  came  in,  looked  at  no  one,  went  quick 
ly  to  his  desk  and  began  to  arrange  some  papers.  There 
was  a  moment's  silence  which  was  ended  by  Dan's  say- 


HELD. 
'I  demand  that  you  do  so  at  once!" — Page  288. 


"The  Hand  of  God  Has  Struck!"  289 

ing:    "Mr.    Inspector,  is   there   a  charge  against  my 
boy?" 

"Certainly  not,  Mr.  Lyon,"  the  Inspector  answered, 
"  and  never  has  been.  An  unfounded  accusation  was 
made  against  him  once — by  a  citizen — but,  T  am  glad  to 
say,  I  have  the  confession  of  the  right  party  in  that  case. " 

Dan  looked  wonderfully  relieved,  and  his  hand  slipped 
down  to  Tom's,  but  Tom  did  not  notice  him.  Again 
the  Inspector  silently  examined  some  papers,  and 
Waters'  face,  which  had  been  a  disagreeable  gray,  began 
to  flush  as  he  at  last  said:  "  Mr.  Inspector,  I  shall  go  to 
a  higher  authority  than  you  to-morrow  for  redress  for 
the  outrage  committed  on  me  by  your  officer  to-night; 
but  I  suppose  you  are  the  authority  to  end  this  present 
farce,  and  I  demand  that  you  do  so  at  once." 

The  Inspector  took  no  notice  of  him,  but  having  found 
the  letters  he  wanted,  said,  looking  at  Teresa: 

"You  are  Mrs.  Cortese?" 

"lam." 

"And  were  the  wife  of  Ettore  Cesarotti?" 

"I  was." 

"And  this  is  his  daughter,  Carminella?" 

"It  is." 

"  Do  you  recognize  this  as  the  signature  of  the  Ettore 
Cesarotti  who  was  your  husband?" 

"I  do." 

"  By  the  way,  Mr.  Lyon  (to  Dan),  could  you  identify 
Mark  Waters'  signature?" 

"I  could  not,"  Dan  answered. 

"I  could,  Mr.  Inspector,  "said  Peyton,  and  he  stepped 
to  the  desk  and  did  so.  Then  he  walked  back  to  his 
place  behind  Teresa. 

"I'll  only  trouble  you  a  minute  more,  Mrs.  Cortese," 
resumed  the  Inspector.  "  Have  you  ever  received  from 
24 


290  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

your  husband,  through  any  person,  or  in  any  way,  any 
remittances,  money,  or  anything — from  Ettore  Cesarotti 
I  mean?" 

"  I  have  received  nothing  from  him,  nor  heard  from 
him  since  he  deserted  me,  nearly  fifteen  years  ago. " 

Waters  had  often  assumed  a  false  character,  but  never 
in  his  life  did  he  do  a  better  piece  of  acting  than  at  that 
moment.  He  looked  justly  indignant,  as  he  said  with 
an  insolent  drawl:  "This  may  be  imposing  to  these 
foreigners,  Mr.  Inspector,  but  to  me  it  is  all  bosh.  You 
have  forcibly  brought  me  here  without  a  warrant:  I  de 
mand  my  instant  release.  Pray,  who  gave  you  the  au 
thority  of  warrant,  judge,  and  jury?" 

**  Nobody,"  answered  the  Inspector,  coolly.  "  This  is 
one  of  the  things  we  do  without  authority  when  we 
want  evidence  to  hold  a  prisoner  until  we  have  a  com 
plaint,  or  indictment.  But  if  you  are  particular  to  have 
everything  in  proper  form  I  guess  we  can  accommodate 
you.  Cullen,  take  this  prisoner  to  the  Tombs,  and  charge 
him,  on  your  complaint,  with  attempted  abduction." 

The  blood  had  been  slowly  rising,  like  a  tide,  in 
Waters'  neck  and  face,  but  it  dashed  up  like  a  wave  as 
he  felt  Cullen 's  firm  grasp  on  his  arm.  He  looked 
quickly  about  the  room  with  terrified  eyes,  then  suddenly 
fell  to  his  knees  and  dragged  himself  toward  Carmi- 
nella:  bravado,  insolence,  all  assumption,  were  gone,  as 
he  cried  hoarsely,  "  Carminella,  save  me !  I  meant  no 
harm!  I  would  have  married  you.  My  God!  Carmi 
nella,  save  me,  for  I  love  you!" 

The  shock  of  the  sudden  craven  abasement  of  the 
man  held  all  the  spectators  motionless  and  silent  for  a 
moment.  Then  Carminella  spoke,  slowly,  her  voice 
trembling,  taking  Tom's  hand  and  carrying  it  to  her 
breast:  "I  love  this  man!  You  tried " 


"The  Hand  of  God  Has  Struck!"  291 

Waters  staggered  to  his  feet,  maddened  to  an  instant's 
desperate  strength  by  the  girl's  words  and  gesture.  "  I 
tried?"  he  shouted.  "You  lie!  You  asked " 

Tom  and  Teresa  sprang  at  him.  Dan  threw  himself 
before  his  son:  Philip  Peyton  grasped,  with  both  hie, 
Teresa's  right  hand  which  had  slipped  from  the  folds  of 
her  dress,  clutching  a  knife. 

Waters  had  not  seen  this,  or  anything,  after  the  lie  he 
tried  to  utter  broke  in  his  throat.  His  knees  gave  way, 
and  slowly  at  first,  then  with  a  quick  collapse,  his  body 
fell  to  the  floor. 

"Tom!  Teresa!"  said  Dan,  solemnly,  "hold  your 
hands!  The  hand  of  God  has  struck!" 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

TWO  WEDDINGS  AND   A   GARDEN. 

THE  reader  has  heard  enough  in  hints  and  gossip 
about  George  Peyton's  affairs — the  rehabilitation  of 
Philip  in  fashionable  apartments;  the  reports  of  the 
San  Francisco  detective  agency  to  Mark  Waters ;  Minnie 
Hazelhurst  sending  to  Blue  Canon,  at  George's  request, 
information  about  the  Corteses;  the  gossip  of  the  clubs, 
reported  by  Waters'  companion  in  the  Mayfair  box; 
enough  such  fragments  of  news  and  gossip  have  been 
reported,  I  think,  to  give  a  pretty  good  idea  of  how 
things  have  been  going  in  Blue  Canon  since  George 
Peyton  struck  pay  rock  in  the  Porterhouse  Claim  mine. 

George  arrived  in  New  York  the  evening  following 
Mark  Waters'  death  from  apoplexy  in  the  Inspector's 
office ;  and  at  night,  when  he  went  to  their  apartments 
after  leaving  the  Hazel  hursts'  (where  his  call  was  of  a 
shockingly  unfashionable  length),  he  and  Philip  had 
their  second  grave  business  conference,  and  told  each 
other  volumes  which  had  been  left  untold  in  their  let 
ters.  Only  a  little  of  what  they  said  which  concerns 
this  story  is  not  already  known.  The  deal  for  a  sale  of 
a  half-interest  in  the  Porterhouse  claim  was  successfully 
made  by  Horace  Masters,  and  it  left  Ettore  Cesarotti 
and  George  Peyton  each  quarter-owner  in  the  rich  mine, 
and  gave  them  each  a  fortune  to  invest.  It  seemed  for 
some  time  that  Hector,  as  Ettore  was  still  called  in  Blue 

292 


Two  Weddings  and  a  Garden.  293 

Canon,  would  not  live  to  see  the  deal  consummated,  but 
the  balsamic  mountain-air  was  in  his  favor,  and  he  fid 
dled  at  the  celebration  the  camp  had  over  Peyton's  good 
luck  when  the  deal  was  closed. 

It  was  at  that  time  he  saw  on  the  little  table  in  Pey 
ton's  room  a  photograph  which  made  him  run  breath 
less  to  George.  The  picture  was  called  "La  Cortese," 
and  George  told  him  it  had  been  sent  to  him  by  a  lady 
in  New  York  whose  sister  was  interested  in  the  original. 
Hector  declared  it  was  a  picture  of  his  wife  as  she  looked 
when  he  married  her.  George  wrote  to  Minnie  and 
learned  the  particulars,  and  then  it  was  Hector  confided 
to  him  his  whole  story. 

"  He  began  at  the  beginning,"  George  said,  in  telling 
the  story  to  Philip,  "  and  that  was  that  he  was  born  a 
gentleman;  and  went  through  to  the  end,  and  that  was 
a  familiar  yarn — he  had  been  swindled  by  Mark  Waters." 
When  George  told  Hector  all  that  he  thought  necessary 
about  Mark  Waters,  the  Italian  declared  he  would  pre 
pare  for  a  journey  to  New  York,  get  Teresa's  forgive 
ness,  and  kill  Mark  Waters.  The  doctor  told  him  he 
would  better  prepare  for  a  longer  journey.  When  Hec 
tor  became  convinced  that  his  end  was  near  he  took  the 
matter  calmly,  and  made  his  preparations.  All  his 
worldly  affairs  were  left  in  the  hands  of  George  Peyton, 
who  was  made  executor  of  his  will.  One  half  of  his 
property  was  to  go  to  Carminella  upon  her  marriage  or 
majority.  She  could  not  marry  before  she  was  of  age 
without  George's  consent.  The  other  half  of  the  prop 
erty  George  was  to  administer  for  Teresa's  benefit,  while 
she  lived.  At  her  death,  that  share,  too,  was  to  go  to 
Carminella.  "  He  died,  satisfied  with  my  promise  that 
when  I  returned  here  I  would  ask  Teresa's  forgiveness 
for  him ;  and  I  have  a  letter  for  Teresa  from  the  gentle- 


294  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

man,  for  Hector  was  a  gentleman  again  before  he  died," 
George  said. 

A  few  days  after  the  funeral  of  Dan's  foster-son,  Bill 
Williams  (he  was  buried  in  a  corner  of  the  orchard  lot 
of  Mulberry  Court),  Tom  met  George  Peyton  and  Philip 
at  their  apartments. 

"So,  young  man,"  said  George,  clearing  his  throat 
with  a  guardian's  proper  severity,  "you  are  a  suitor  for 
the  hand  of  my  pretty  ward,  are  you?'' 

"Yes,  if  you  please,  sir,"  said  Tom  in  a  meek  voice, 
smiling  serenely.  "  But  I  may  as  well  tell  you  I  got 
her  consent  and  Teresa's  before  I  knew  you  were  in  the 
game.  Dominico,  however,  objects  to  his  daughter 
marrying  a  poor  artist ;  but  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that 
he  objected  after  he  knew  you  were  in  the  game. " 

"  Well,  young  man — Philip,  open  a  cold  bottle  of  wine ! 
Did  I  come  back  to  civilization  to  go  dry? — Do  you  know, 
young  man,  that  I  can  cut  Carminella  off  without  a  shil 
ling  if  she  marries  without  my  consent?" 

"Oh,  kind  sir,"  said  Tom,  taking  a  glass  of  wine, 
"you  can  chuck  all  her  shillings  into  the  East  river, 
but  our  wedding-day  will  not  be  delayed." 

"  Well,"  laughed  George,  "  I  like  your  impudence,  and 
the  impudence  of  everybody.  Nobody  treats  me  with 
proper  respect  as  a  guardian.  I  told  Miss  Hazelhurst 
you  would  have  to  ask  my  consent,  and  she  laughed  at 
me,  and  said  they  were  already  making  preparations  for 
your  wedding  in  the  Hazelhurst  house.  All  the  guar 
dians  I  ever  read  about  always  had  their  own  way,  and 
usually  married  their  wards.  But  you  can't  deny  me 
the  hallowed  privilege  of  saying,  "  Take  her,  my  son, 
and  be  happy. '  " 

The  Mayfair  theatre  was  closed  after  the  opening 
night,  and  soon  the  colored  posters  were  covered  over 


Two  Weddings  and  a  Garden.  295 

with  announcements  of  another  attraction  in  which  ap 
peared  neither  the  name  of  Marie  Leon  nor  of  La  Cor- 
tese.  On  Sunday,  the  day  after  the  opening,  Dominico 
sought  the  Mayfair  manager.  Dominico  was  in  exuber 
ant  spirits.  He  beamed  and  glowed  and  smiled  and 
seemed  to  walk  on  air. 

"  La  Cortese  will  not  appear  to-morrow  night — never 
again!"  he  said  to  the  manager,  and  looked  with  excited 
anticipation  for  the  explosion  he  hoped  would  follow ; 
but  the  manager  only  answered,  in  despair  and  weari 
ness: 

"  Of  course  she  won't.  Do  you  suppose  I  want  her  to 
dance  in  a  closed  theatre?" 

"Closed?"  echoed  Dominico,  in  astonishment. 

"Yes,  closed,"  the  manager  repeated,  "Marie  Leon 
has  cancelled  her  engagement. 

Dominico  was  too  dazed  to  say  anything  until  the 
manager  asked: 

"  What's  the  matter  with  La  Cortese?  Got  a  cold  in 
her  feet?" 

"  She  is  sick,"  Dominico  answered,  "  but  not  very,  and 
that  is  not  it.  She  is  rich,  very  rich!"  and  Dominico 
smiled  and  glowed  and  beamed  again. 

"  Oh,  she's  caught  a  millionaire  too,  has  she?"  growled 
the  manager.  "  Everybody  connected  with  the  show 
seems  to  have  struck  good  luck  except  me." 

The  explanation  of  the  manager's  remark  about  mil 
lionaires  was  in  a  scene  which  occurred  in  one  of  the 
sumptuous  suite  of  hotel-rooms  where  Maggie  Lyon,  in 
a  morning  gown  of  irreproachable  freshness  and  beauty, 
was  eating  a  very  substantial  noonday  breakfast,  in  spite 
of  occasional  tears.  She  was  thus  engaged  when  Mr. 
Jacob  Van  Hahn  was  announced,  and  admitted. 

He  was    a   mild,   comfortable-looking,   middle-aged 


296  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

man,  with  a  blond  moustache  and  blond  hair  parted 
with  neat  exactness  in  the  middle.  He  looked  as  if  he 
had  never  had  a  care  in  the  world,  and  it  is  quite  likely 
he  had  not.  He  was  of  the  fourth  generation  of  rich 
New  York  Van  Hahns,  so  it  was  no  trouble  to  him  to 
live  a  life  of  leisure.  He  had  met  Maggie  Lyon  when 
she  was  singing  minor  parts  in  comic  opera  in  New 
York.  Van  Hahn's  one  accomplishment  was  a  consider 
ably-cultivated  talent  for  music.  He  had  expressed  an 
opinion  that  there  was  the  making  of  a  good  singer  in 
Maggie  Lyon,  and  when  this  was  disputed  it  had  amused 
him  to  test  his  judgment  by  sending  her  to  Paris  for 
musical  training.  He  had  been  her  patron  in  her  pro 
fessional  career,  first  in  London,  and  now  in  New  York. 
In  their  old  New  York  days  Van  Hahn  had  frequently 
entertained  parties,  of  which  Maggie  was  a  member,  on 
board  of  his  yacht,  where  she  had  shown  such  aptitude 
for  sailor  lore  he  had  called  her  "  Captain. "  Her  name 
for  him  was  "  Commodore." 

He  stopped,  as  he  entered  the  room  and  saw  that  she 
was  crying,  threw  on  a  chair  a  bundle  as  big  as  a  valise, 
of  morning  newpapers,  and  exclaimed : 

"  What?  The  Captain  in  tears !  With  every  paper  in 
the  city  giving  her  a  column  of  good  notices!" 

"Sit  down,  Commodore,"  she  said,  motioning  to  a 
chair  at  the  table,  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you. " 

"My,  how  solemn  we  are!  Didn't  they  recall  you 
enough  last  night?" 

"  I  want  you  to  be  serious,  Commodore ;  I  want  to  tell 
you  something.  I'm  going  to  quit  all  this." 

"  All  what?"  he  asked  opening  his  eyes  wide. 

"Why— all— everything,"  waving  a  hand  which, 
somehow,  seemed  to  include  the  suite  of  rooms,  the 
Commodore,  and  herself. 


Two  Weddings  and  a  Garden.  297 

"But,  Maggie,  I  don't  understand  you,"  Van  Hahn 
said,  and  he  looked  a  little  troubled. 

"  I'll  tell  you,  Jake,"  she  said,  leaning  her  elbows  on 
the  table  and  resting  her  chin  on  her  palms  as  she  looked 
across  at  him  seriously.  "It  isn't  right:  it  never  has 
been  right,  although  you've  always  been  very  nice  and 
kind  to  me.  I've  made  up  my  mind  that  I  ought  to  see 
what  I  can  do  alone.  If  my  voice  won't  carry  me 
through  without  the  diamonds  and  expensive  costumes, 
why,  I'll — I'll  be  a  dressmaker,  and  you  must  never  see 
me  any  more." 

Having  thus  announced  her  destiny,  Maggie  wept 
softly,  and  Mr.  Van  Hahn  said,  with  equal  softness: 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!" 

Then  he  walked  about  the  room,  bit  his  blond  mous 
tache  a  good  deal,  kicked  things  that  came  in  his  way, 
and  otherwise  indicated  that  he  was  undergoing  the  rare 
experience  of  mental  distress.  At  last  he  returned  to 
her  and  said :  "  What's  brought  you  to  this  way  of  think 
ing  about— about  things,  Maggie?" 

She  handed  him  Dan  Lyon's  letter  and  he  read  it. 
It  was  dated  the  day  before,  and  this  is  what  Dan  wrote : 

"Mv  DEAR  NIECE  MAGGIE: — Tom  brought  me  your  note  saying 
you  would  come  over  here  to-morrow  with  Mr.  Van  Hahn.  You 
know,  Maggie,  that  your  old  uncle  has  always  had  a  warm  spot 
in  his  heart  for  you,  the  only  child  of  his  only  brother.  Your 
father  knew  before  he  died  that  until  Tom  was  born  it  was  my 
meaning  to  leave  whatever  I  might  have  when  I  died  to  you.  If 
I  should  die  to-day,  or  whenever  I  die,  you  would  find  that  I  have 
left  something  for  you  against  hard  luck.  I  am  only  telling  you 
this,  Maggie,  that  you  may  know  your  old  uncle's  heart  has  not 
turned  against  you  ;  but  while  I  have  a  home  where  I  hope,  some 
day,  Tom  will  bring  a  good  wife,  as  good  as  was  your  mother  and 
his,  I  can't  welcome  you  with  Mr.  Van  Hahn  to  it.  But  if  ever 
you're  alone  in  the  world,  Maggie,  my  home  is  yours  as  long  as 
you  can  stay  with  your  UNCLE  DAN.  " 


298  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

Mr.  Van  Hahn  again  walked  up  and  down  the  room, 
stopping  a  dozen  times  to  re-read  the  letter.  Then  he 
sat  down  again  opposite  Maggie  and  said  quietly :  "  He's 
a  good  deal  of  a  chap,  your  uncle  Dan. "  Maggie  nodded 
and  wept.  He  went  to  her  writing-desk  and  returned  in  a 
few  minutes  with  a  letter,  which  he  handed  to  her  saying : 

"  I  couldn't  get  along  very  well  without  you,  Maggie. 
If  you  will  have  me,  send  Uncle  Dan  this." 

And  this  was  the  letter: 

"Mv  DEAR  MR.  LYON  : — As  you  are  Miss  Maggie  Lyon's  nearest 
relative,  I  write  to  you  formally  asking  your  sanction  of  our  mar 
riage.  I  shall  consider  it  a  great  honor,  if  our  plans  meet  your 
approval,  to  have  our  wedding  at  your  home,  Friday  next,  as  we 
sail  for  England  on  Saturday. 

Respectfully  yours, 

JACOB  VAN  HAHN. 
To  Daniel  Lyon,  Esq.,  Mulberry  Court,  L.  I." 

"  Commodore, "  said  Maggie,  when  she  could  talk  from 
laughing  and  crying,  "  will  you  tell  the  management 
the  engagement  is  off  at  the  Mayfair.  And  oh,  Com 
modore,  there's  a  forfeit  to  pay  under  the  contract. 
Would  you  mind  giving  him  your  check?" 

And  so  they  were  married. 

There  were  only  the  Corteses  and  Tom  at  the  wed 
ding.  They  were  happy  enough  over  Dan's  good 
cheer,  but  quiet,  because  Molly  was  sick  in  the  house: 
"My  daughter,  Mrs.  Williams,"  Dan  called  her. 

There  were  more  guests  at  the  wedding  of  Tom  and 
Carminella,  and  they  were  all  happy  with  the  exception 
of  Dominico.  That  dispirited  Italian  had  provided  wed 
ding  garments  for  his  own  apparelling  of  a  gorgeousness 
that,  in  variety  and  vividness  of  colors,  would  pale  the 
palette  of  an  impressionist.  He  showed  this  outfit  to 
Teresa,  and  he  wept  when  she  said  he  should  not  wear 


Two  Weddings  and  a  Garden.  299 

them.  Teresa  that  day  made  her  first  extravagant  use 
of  her  new  income.  She  ordered  a  carriage,  took 
Dominico  with  her  to  a  fashionable  clothier's,  and  pro 
vided  that  chastened  man  wth  a  complete  wardrobe  of 
conventional  cut  and  color. 

"  It  is  no  pleasure  to  be  rich  in  America,  my  Teresa," 
he  said  disconsolately,  when  he  was  dressed  for  the  wed 
ding,  "if  even  at  our  children's  marriages  we  must  dress 
ever  in  mourning.  But  once  in  our  beautiful  Italy  again ! 
Gran'  Dio!  If  Riccodonna  could  only  see  me  there!" 

I  wish  I  had  space  to  describe  all  the  pretty  details 
Eleanor  and  Minnie  Hazlehurst  provided  for  that  wed 
ding.  Eleanor's  interest,  of  course,  was  most  in  Carmi- 
nella,  but  Minnie  took  a  worldly  pride  in  providing  a 
fashionable  and  exactly  proper  wedding  for  T.  Fitz 
Gerald  Lyon,  Minnie's  affianced  husband's  associate  in 
his  mining  affairs;  as,  of  course,  Tom  would  become  in 
the  management  of  Carminella's  fortune. 

Mrs.  Jack  Daring  was  one  of  the  wedding  guests.  Tom 
said  to  her,  smiling,  when  she  came  to  congratulate 
them: 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Mrs.  Daring." 

"For?" 

"For  calling  me  a  fool.  Don't  you  remember?  It 
started  me  right  again." 

"  Yes,  but  you've  proved  that  you  did  not  remain  one. 
Men  do  not  remain  fools  always — they  have  lucid  inter 
vals.  My  dear,"  she  added  to  Carminella,  "you  don't 
deserve  a  compliment  from  me — because  you  looked  at 
me  murderously  the  night  you  danced  here — but  I  must 
say  you  are  the  only  bride  I  ever  saw  in  my  life  who 
stood  up  gracefully  at  the  sacrifice.  Oh,  and  let  me  give 
you  some  advice.  Never  let  your  husband  lift  you  into  a 
swing.  I  have  not  been  comfortable  in  a  corset  since. " 


300  A  Daughter  of  the  Tenements. 

Tom  and  Carminella  went  to  Blue  Canon  on  their 
wedding  journey;  and  the  first  painting  of  Tom's  that 
was  accepted  at  the  Society  Exhibition  after  their  return 
to  New  York  was  all  in  misty  blue  and  purple;  indicat 
ing,  rather  than  picturing,  the  mysterious  depths  of  Blue 
Canon  as  it  appeared  to  him  when  he  painted  it  from  in 
front  of  the  old  tunnel  of  the  Porterhouse  Claim  mine, 
with  Carminella  by  his  side  plaiting  fragrant  bay- 
leaves  into  a  garland  they  placed  on  the  grave  of  Ettore 
Cesarotti. 

Teresa  and  Dominico  are  visiting  in  Italy,  where  they 
will  remain  until  a  pretty  cottage  is  finished  which 
Carminella  is  building  on  a  place  near  Dan's  home.  It 
is  all  Carminella's  idea — the  plan  for  the  cottage  and  the 
furnishing,  the  stable,  and  the  pony  and  cart  which 
Teresa  is  to  drive ;  particularly  to  drive  to  the  station 
when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tom  go  over  to  visit  her.  It  was 
only  Carminella's  wish  to  have  everything — cottage, 
stable  and  all — ready  for  Teresa's  use  before  she  should 
see  them,  that  induced  her  to  let  her  mother  stay  in  Italy 
so  long ;  but  hard  as  was  the  separation  for  mother  and 
daughter  it  was  a  period  of  perfect  rapture  for  Dominico. 
Every  steamer  brought  from  him  neckscarfs,  wine,  or 
olives  for  Dan;  and  for  Riccodonna,  photographs  of 
Dominico  in  a  carriage  at  Naples,  with  a  guide  at  Rome, 
in  a  wondrous  new  costume  at  Palermo,  until  the  en 
raged  Riccodonna  hated  the  very  sight  of  the  postman. 

Dan  Lyon  is  not  lonely  at  Mulberry  Court  between 
the  weekly  visits  of  Tom  and  his  wife.  There  is  a 
young  woman  there  he  calls  Molly,  and  speaks  of  as 
"My  daughter,  Mrs.  Williams."  Molly  was  very  ill 
many  weeks,  and  was  fragile  during  all  the  winter;  but 
the  care  and  attention,  the  wholesome  life  and,  most  of 
all,  the  clean,  pure  air  she  breathed  for  the  first  time,  did 


AT     MULBERRY    COURT. 
"There  is  a  young  woman  there  whom  he  calls  Molly."— Page  300. 


Two  Weddings  and  a  Garden.  301 

more  than  restore  her  health — it  gave  her  such  health  as 
she  never  before  had.  Dan  came  over  to  the  city  and  con 
sulted  with  Eleanor  Hazelhurst  about  Molly;  and  when 
he  told  her  he  would  gladly  give  the  girl  a  home  with 
him,  Eleanor  said  that  was  the  best  solution  of  the  prob 
lem  of  Molly's  life.  The  sense  of  security  the  girl 
would  feel  there  for  the  first  time,  the  sense  of  being 
neither  hunted  nor  shunned,  would  do  more  than  reform, 
would  re-create  her  in  a  way  no  possible  life  she  could 
he  helped  to  lead  in  the  city  would.  "And,"  added 
Eleanor,  "  you  will  be  doing  a  noble  act,  Mr.  Lyon,  to 
keep  that  girl  in  your  home,  where  God  will  give  her 
nature  strength  to  grow  strong  and  beautiful." 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Molly  could  be  made  to 
understand  that  she  need  not  leave  Dan's  home,  but 
when  she  comprehended  it,  the  cure  of  her  mind  and 
soul  and  body  came  all  at  once.  The  care  of  Mulberry 
Court  is  in  the  strong  hands  of  Dan's  farmer  and  the 
farmer's  lusty  wife — the  care  of  all  but  the  flowers. 
These  never  cease  to  be  a  beloved  charge  and  wonder  to 
the  strong  old  man  and  his  slight  young  companion, 
for  Molly  is  little  more  than  a  child  in  years.  Tom 
takes  them  books — the  charming  books  which  sympa 
thetic  lovers  of  flowers  write,  and  in  the  evenings  Molly 
reads  to  Dan  about  these  strange  new  friends ;  and  in 
the  daytime  they  hunt  them  in  the  woods,  and  plant  and 
care  for  them  in  the  garden,  but  never  pluck  them, 
because,  Dan  says,  "  They  are  there  where  we  can  see 
them,  and  enjoy  them, and  care  for  them,  too;  but  they'll 
only  fade  and  die  the  quicker  if  we  take  them  away, 
Molly  dear,  from  where  God  gives  them  strength  to 
grow  and  be  beautiful." 

THE    END. 


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